To The Lighthouse

UNIFORM EDITION OF TIN
WORKS OF VIRGINIA WOOF!

THE VOYAGE OUT
JACOB’S ROOM
MRS. DALLOWAY
THE COMMON READER
TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

In preparation
NIGHT AND DAY
ORLANDO

First published May 1927
Second impression June 1927
Third impression May 1928
New Edition 19 30

PRINTED rN GREAT BRITAIN BY
R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, EDINBURGH

CONTENTS

I. The Window
II. Time Passes
III. The L

9

1 93

'ICHTHOUS e .

I

Ti 11', \\ I \ | >( >\\

W s > at course, it it’s fine to-morrow,’’ said Mrs
Ramsay. “ But you’ll have to be up with the

lark, she added.

fo hcr son these words conveyed an extra¬
ordinary joy, as if it were settled the expedition
were bound to take place, and the wonder to
which he had looked forward, for years and years
>t seemed, was, after a night’s darkness and a day’s
sad, within touch. Since he belonged, even at
t K. age of six, to that great clan which cannot
keep this feeling separate from that, but must let
lutuie prospects, with their joys and sorrows
cloud.what is actually at hand, since to such people
even in earliest childhood any turn in the wheel
,,f Kt ' nsa,i,,n hns ,iu ' power to crvstalH.se and

transfix the moment upon which its gloom or
radiance rests, James Ramsay, sitting on the floor

cutting out pictures from the illustrated catalogue
of the Army and Navy Stores, endowed die
picture of a refrigerator as his mother spoke with

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

wheelbarrow, the lawn-mower, the sound of poplar
trees, leaves whitening before rain, rooks cawing,
brooms knocking, dresses rustling—all these
were so coloured and distinguished in his mind
that he had already his private code, his secret
language, though he appeared the image of stark
and uncompromising severity, with his high fore¬
head and his fierce blue eyes, impeccably candid
and pure, frowning slightly at the sight of human
frailty, so that his mother, watching him guide
his scissors neatly round the refrigerator, imagined
him all red and ermine on the Bench or directing
a stern and momentous enterprise in some crisis
of public affairs.

But, said his father, stopping in front of
the drawing-room window, “ it won’t be fine.”

Had there been an axe handy, a poker, or anv
weapon that would have gashed a hole in his
fathers breast and killed him, there ami then
James would have seized it. Such were the
extremes of emotion that Mr. Ramsay excited
“ his children’s breasts by his mere presence-
standing, as now, lean as a knife, narrow as the
blade of one, grinning sarcastically, not only with
he pleasure of disillusioning his son and casting
ridicule upon his wife, who was ten thousand
imes better in every way than he was (James
thought), but also with some secret conceit at his

true T aCy f Judgement What he said was

untruth WaS ^ trUe ' He WaS incl P able “f
untruth, never tampered with a fact; never

aiteied a disagreeable word to suit the pleasure

or convenience of any mortal being, leas, of all

should7™ C ' dr ?’ Wh °’ sprun S from his loins,
should be aware from childhood that life is diffi-

tha ’f n tS t7' C0 , mprC ' m!s “ g; “ d the Pa«age to
at fabled land where our brightest hopes are

flHre 8 M p’ °" r “ tarkS foundcr in darkness
hue Mr. leamsay would straighten his back and

•mow his little blue eyes upon the horizon), one

that needs, above all, courage, truth, and the

power to endure.

•, * Ut \V n:ly hC <lnC ~ I eXpect k wiI! be fine,”

said Mrs. Ramsay, making some little twist of the
reddish-brown stocking she was knitting, im¬
patiently. It she finished it to-night, if they did
go to the Lighthouse after all, it was to be given
(o t ie Lighthouse keeper for his little boy, who
was fueatened with a tuberculous hip; together
with a pile of old magazines, and sonic tobacco,
indeed whatever she could find lying about, not
ically wanted, but only littering the room, to
give those poor fellows who must be bored to
death sitting all day with nothing to do but
Polish the lamp and trim the wick and rake
mout on theii scrap of garden, something to

13

i

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

amuse them. For how would you like to be shut
up for a whole month at a time, and possibly more
in stormy weather, upon a rock the size of a
tennis lawn? she would ask; and to have no
letters or newspapers, and to see nobody; it you
were married, not to see your wife, not to know¬
how your children were,—if they were ill, it they
had fallen down and broken their legs or arms;
to see the same dreary waves breaking week after
week, and then a dreadful storm coming, and the
windows covered with spray, and birds dashed
against the lamp, and the whole place rocking,
and not be able to put your nose out of doors for
fear of being swept into the sea? How would you
like that? she asked, addressing herself particularly
to her daughters. So she added, rather differently,
one must take them whatever comforts one can.

“ It’s due west,” said the atheist Tansley,
holding his bony fingers spread so that the wind
blew through them, for he was sharing Mr.
Ramsay’s evening walk up and down, up and
down the terrace. That is to say, the wind blew
frogi the worst possible direction for landing at
the Lighthouse. Yes, he did say disagreeable
things, Mrs. Ramsay admitted; it was odious of
him to rub this in, and make James still more
disappointed; but at the same time, she would
not let them laugh at him. “ The atheist ”, they
14

THE WINDOW

called him; “the little atheist”. Rose mocked
him; Prue mocked him; Andrew, Jasper, Roger
mocked him; even old Badger without a tooth
in his head had bit him, for being (as Nancy put
it) the hundred and tenth young man to chase
them all the way up to the Hebrides when it was
ever so much nicer to be alone.

Nonsense, said Mrs. Ramsay, with great
severity. Apart from the habit of exaggeration
which they had from her, and from the implica¬
tion (which was true) that she asked too many
people to stay, and had to lodge some in the town,
she could not bear incivility to her guests, to
young men in particular, who were poor as church
mice, “ exceptionally able ”, her husband said, his
great admirers, and come there for a holiday.
Indeed, she had the whole of the other sex under
her protection; for reasons she could not explain,
for their chivalry and valour, for the fact that they
negotiated treaties, ruled India, controlled finance;
finally for an attitude towards herself which no
woman could fail to feel or to find agreeable,
something trustful, childlike, reverential; which
an old woman could take from a young man with¬
out loss of dignity, and woe betide the girl—pray
Heaven it was none of her daughters!—who did
not feel the worth of it, and all that it implied, to
the marrow of her bones.

A-

l 5

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

She turned with severity upon Nancy. He
had not chased them, she said. He had been
asked.

They must find a way out of it all. There
might be some simpler way, some less laborious
way, she sighed. When she looked in the glass
and saw her hair grey, her cheek sunk, at fifty,
she thought, possibly she might have managed
things better—her husband; money; his bonks.
But for her own part she would never for a single
second regret her decision, evade difficulties, or
slur over duties. She was now formidable to
behold, and it was only in silence, looking up
from their plates, after she had spoken so severely
about Charles Tansley, that her daughters—
Prue, Nancy, Rose—could sport with infidel ideas
which they had brewed for themselves of a life
different from hers; in Paris, perhaps; a wilder
life; not always taking care of some man or other;
for there was in all their minds a mute questioning
of deference and chivalry, of the Bank of England
and the Indian Empire, of ringed fingers ami lace,
though to them all there was something in this
of the essence of beauty, which called out the
manliness in their girlish hearts, and made them,
as they sat at table beneath their mother’s eyes,
honour her strange severity, her extreme courtesy,
like a Queen’s raising from the mud a beggar’s
16

the window

dirty foot and washing it, when she thus admonished
them so very severely about that wretched atheist
who had chased them to—or, speaking accurately,
been invited to stay with them in—the Isle of
Skye.

“ There ’ 11 be no landing at the Lighthouse
to-morrow,” said Charles Tansley, clapping his
hands together as he stood at the window with
her husband. Surely, he had said enough. She
wished they would both leave her and James alone
and go on talking. She looked at him. He was
such a miserable specimen, the children said, all
humps and hollows. He couldn’t play cricket;
he poked; he shuffled. He was a sarcastic brute,

Andrew said. They knew what he liked best_

to be for ever walking up and down, up and down,
with Mr. Ramsay, and saying who had won this’
who had won that, who was a “ first-rate man ” at
Latin verses, who was “ brilliant but I think
fundamentally unsound ”, who was undoubtedly
the “ ablest fellow in Balliol ”, who had buried
his light temporarily at Bristol or Bedford, but
was bound to be heard of later when his Prolego¬
mena, of which Mr. Tansley had the first pages
in proof with him if Mr. Ramsay would like to
see them, to some branch of mathematics or
philosophy saw the light of day. That was what
they talked about.

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

She could not help laughing herself sometimes.
She said, the other day, something abouM' waves
mountains high”. Yes, said Charles I. ansk_\,
it was a little rough. “ Aren’t you drenched to
the skin?” she had said. “Damp, not wet
through,” said Mr. Tansley, pinching his sleeve,
feeling his socks.

But it was not that they minded, the children
said. It was not his face; it was not his manners.
It was him—his point of view. \\ lien the}'
talked about something interesting, people, music,
history, anything, even said it was a fine evening
so why not sit out of doors, then what they com¬
plained of about Charles Tansley was that until
he had turned the whole thing round and made
it somehow reflect himself and disparage them,
put them all on edge somehow with his acid way
of peeling the flesh and blood off everything, he
was not satisfied. And he would go to picture
galleries, they said, and he would ask one, did
one like his tie? God knows, said Rose, one
did not.

Disappearing as stealthily as stags from the
dinner-table directly the meal was over, the eight
sons and daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay
sought their bedrooms, their fastnesses in a house
where there was no other privacy to debate any¬
thing, everything; Tansley’s tie; the passing of
18

THE WINDOW

the Reform Bill; sea-birds and butterflies; people;
while the sun poured into those attics, which a
plank alone separated from each other so that
every footstep could be plainly heard and the
Swiss girl sobbing for her father who was dying
of cancer in a valley of the Grisons, and lit
up bats, flannels, straw hats, ink-pots, paint-pots,
beetles, and the skulls of small birds, while it
drew from the long frilled strips of seaweed
pinned to the wall a smell of salt and weeds,
which was in the towels too, gritty with sand
from bathing.

Stiife, divisions, difference of opinion, pre¬
judices twisted into the very fibre of being, oh that
they should begin so early, Mrs. Ramsay deplored.
They were so critical, her children. They talked
such nonsense. She went from the dining-room,
holding James by the hand, since he would not
go with the others. It seemed to her such
nonsense inventing differences, when people,
heaven knows, were different enough without that.
The real differences, she thought, standing by the
drawing-room window, are enough, quite enough.
She had in mind at the moment, rich and poor,
high and low; the great in birth receiving from
hei, half grudging, some respect, for had she
not in her veins the blood of that very noble, if
slightly mythical, Italian house, whose daughters,

19

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

scattered about English drawing-rooms in the
nineteenth century, had lisped so charmingly,
had stormed so wildly, and all her wit and her
bearing and her temper came from them, and
not from the sluggish English, or the cold
Scotch; but more profoundly she ruminated the
other problem, of rich and poor, and the things
she saw with her own eyes, weekly, daily, here
or in London, when she visited this widow, or
that struggling wife in person with a bag on
her arm, and a note-book and pencil with which
she wrote down in columns carefully ruled for
the purpose wages and spendings, employment
and unemployment, in the hope that thus she
would cease to be a private woman whose charity
was half a sop to her own indignation, half a
relief to her own curiosity, and become, what
with her untrained mind she greatly admired, an
investigator, elucidating the social problem.

Insoluble questions they were, it seemed to her,
standing there, holding James by the hand. 1 le
had followed her into the drawing-room, that
young man they laughed at; he was standing bv
the table, fidgeting with something, awkwardly,
feeling himself out of things, as she knew without
looking round. They had all gone—the children;
Minta Doyle and Paul Rayley; Augustus Car¬
michael; her husband—they had all gone. So she
20

THE WINDOW

turned with a sigh and said, “ Would it bore you
to come with me, Mr. Tansley? ”

She had a dull errand in the town; she had a
letter or two to write; she would be ten minutes
perhaps; she would put on her hat. And, with
her basket and her parasol, there she was again,
ten minutes later, giving out a sense of being
ready, of being equipped for a jaunt, which, how¬
ever, she must interrupt for a moment, as they
passed the tennis lawn, to ask Mr. Carmichael,
who was basking with his yellow cat’s eyes ajar,
so that like a cat’s they seemed to reflect the
branches moving or the clouds passing, but to
give no inkling of any inner thoughts or emotion
whatsoever, if he wanted anything.

For they were making the great expedition,
she said, laughing. They were going to the
town. “ Stamps, writing-paper, tobacco? ” she
suggested, stopping by his side. But no, he
wanted nothing. His hands clasped themselves
over his capacious paunch, his eyes blinked, as
if he would have liked to reply kindly to these
blandishments (she was seductive but a little
nervous) but could not, sunk as he was in a grey-
green somnolence which embraced them all,
without need of words, in a vast and benevolent
lethargy of well-wishing; all the house; all the
world; all the people in it, for he had slipped into

21

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

his glass at lunch a few drops of something, which
accounted, the children thought, for the vivid
streak of canary-yellow in moustache ami beard
that were otherwise milk-white. 1 le wanted
nothing, he murmured.

He should have been a great philosopher, said
Mrs. Ramsay, as they went down the road to the
fishing village, but he had made an unfortunate
marriage. Holding her black parasol verv erect,
and moving with an indescribable air of expecta¬
tion, as if she were going to meet someone round
the corner, she told the story; an affair at (Ixford
with some girl; an early marriage; povertv;
going to India; translating a little poet re “ very
beautifully, I believe”, being willing to teach the
boys Persian or Hindustanee, but what really was
the use of that?—and then lying, as they saw him,
on the lawn.

It flattered him; snubbed as he had been,
it soothed him that Mrs, Ramsay should tell
him this. Charles Tansley revived. Insinuat¬
es’ too, as she did the greatness of man’s in¬
tellect, even in its decay, the subjection of all
wives—not that she blamed the girl, and the
marriage had been happy enough, she believed—
to their husband’s labours, she made him feel
better pleased with himself than he had done vet

and he would have liked, had they taken a cub
0,0 J >

THE WINDOW

for example, to have paid the fare. As for her
little bag, might he not carry that? No, no, she
said, she always carried that herself. She did too.
Yes, he felt that in her. He felt many things,
something in particular that excited him and
disturbed him for reasons which he could not give.
He would like her to see him, gowned and hooded,
walking in a procession. A fellowship, a pro¬
fessorship, he felt capable of anything and saw
himself—but what was she looking at? At a man
pasting a bill. The vast flapping sheet flattened
itself out, and each shove of the brush revealed
fresh legs, hoops, horses, glistening reds and blues,
beautifully smooth, until half the wall was covered
with the advertisement of a circus; a hundred
horsemen, twenty performing seals, lions, tigers. . .
Craning forwards, for she was short-sighted, she
read out how it ... “ will visit this town.” It
was terribly dangerous work for a one-armed man,
she exclaimed, to stand on top of a ladder like
that his left arm had been cut off in a reaping
machine two years ago.

“ Let us all go! ” she cried, moving on, as if all
those riders and horses had filled her with child¬
like exultation and made her forget her pity.

“ Let’s go,” he said, repeating her words,
clicking them out, however, with a self-conscious¬
ness that made, her wince. “ Let us go to the

23

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Circus.” No. He could not say it right. 11c
could not feel it right. But why not? she wondered.
What was wrong with him then? She liked
him warmly, at the moment. Had they not been
taken, she asked, to circuses when they were
children? Never, he answered, as if she asked the
very thing he wanted to reply to; had been longing
all these days to say, how they did not go to cir¬
cuses. It was a large family, nine brothers and
sisters, and his father was a working man; “ Mi-
father is a chemist, Mrs. Ramsay. 1 le keeps a
shop.” He himself had paid his own way since he
was thirteen. Often he went without a greatcoat
in winter. He could never “ return hospitality ”
(those were his parched stiff words) at college.
He had to make things last twice the time other
people did; he smoked the cheapest tobacco; shag;
the same the old men smoked on the quays. I le
worked hard—seven hours a day; his subject was
now the influence of something upon somebody—
they were walking on and Mrs. Ramsay did not
quite catch the meaning, only the words, here and
there . . . dissertation . . . fellowship . . . reader-
ship' • • . lectureship. She could not follow the
ugly academic jargon, that rattled itself off so
glibly, but said to herself that she saw now why-
going to the circus had knocked him off his perch,

poor little man, and why he came out, instantly,
24

THE WINDOW

with all that about his father and mother and
brothers and sisters, and she would see to it that
th<._\ liidn t laugh at him anv more; she would tell
Pruc i ( - What he would have liked, she

supp< )seu, uouhi ha\ - e been to sav how he had been
to llisen with the kamsnvs. lie was an awful
pnp;—oh yes, an insufferable bore. (<W, though
the_\’ had readied the town now and were in the
main street, with carts grinding past on the
cobbles, still he went on talking, about settlements,
and teaching, and working men, and helping our
own class, and lectures, till she gathered that he
had got back entire self-confidence, had recovered
from the circus, and was about (and now again
she liked him warmly) to tell her—but here,
the houses falling away on both sides, they came
out on the quay, and the whole bay spread
bdoie tnem and Mrs. Ramsay could not help
cxc laumng, Oh, In>w beautiful! ” for the great
plateful of blue water was before her; the hoary
Right house, distant, austere, in the midst; and on
the light, as far as the eye could see, fading and
falling, in soft low pleats, the green sand dunes
with the wild flowing grasses on them, which
always seemed to be running a wav into some
moon country, uninhabited of men.

1 hat was the view, she said, stopping, growing
greyer-eyed, that her husband loved.

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

She paused a moment. But now, she said,
artists had come here. There indeed, only a few
paces off, stood one of them, in Panama hat and
yellow boots, seriously, softly, absorhedly, for all
that he was watched by ten little boys, witn an aii
of profound contentment on his round red face,
gazing, and then, when he had gazed, dipping;
imbuing the tip of his brush in some soft mourn>
of green or pink. Since Mr. Pauncefortc. had been
there, three years before, all the pictures were line
that she said, green and grey, with lemon-coloured
sailing-boats, and pink women on the beach.

But her grandmother’s friends, she said,
glancing discreetly as they passed, took the
greatest pains; first they mixed their own colours,
and then they ground them, and then they put-
damp cloths on them to keep them moist.

So Mr. Tansley supposed she meant him to sec
that that man’s picture was skimpy, was that what
one said? The colours weren’t solid? Was that
what one said? Under the influence of that ex¬
traordinary emotion which had been growing all
the walk, had begun in the garden when he had
wanted to take her bag, had increased in the town
when he had wanted to tell her everything about
himself, he was coming to see himself and every¬
thing he had ever known gone crooked a little.
It was awfully strange.

26

THE WINDOW

I here he stood in the parlour of" the poke little
homa: where she hud taken him, waiting tor her,
while* she went upstairs a moment to see a woman,
I le heard her cpiick step above; heard! her voice
cheerful, then low; looked at the mats, tea-caddies,
p-lass shades; waited quite impatiently; looked
forward eagerly to the walk home, determined to
carry her bag; then heard her come out; shut
a door; say they must keep the windows open
and the doors shut, ask at the house tor anything'
they wanted (she must he talking to a child),
when, suddenly, in she came, stood for a moment
silent (as it she had been pretending up there,
and tor a moment let herself he now), stood
quite motionless for a moment against a picture
of Ouecn Victoria wearing the blue ribbon of the
barter; and all at: once he realised that it was
this: it was this: —she was the most beautiful
person he had ever seen.

W ith stars in her eyes and veils in her hair,
with eye la men and wild violets—-what nonsense
was he thinking? She was fifty at least; she had
eight children. Stepping through fields ol flowers
and taking to her breast buds that: had broken and
lambs that had fallen; with the stars in her eyes
ami the wind in her hair — 1 Ic took her bag.

(mod-bye, Jklsie,” she said, and they walked
up the street, she holding her parasol erect and

27

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

walking as if she expected to meet someone mum!
the corner, while for the first time in his llm
Charles Tansley felt an extraordinary pride; a man
digging in a drain stopped digging and looked at
her; let his arm fall down and looked at her;
Charles Tansley felt an extraordinary pride; felt
the wind and the cyclamen and the violets tor he
was walking with a beautiful woman for the first
time in his life. He had hold of her bag.

“ No going, to the Lighthouse, James,” he
said, as he stood by the window, speaking awk¬
wardly, but trying in deference to Mrs. Ramsay
to soften his voice into some semblance of
geniality at least.

Odious little man, thought Mrs. Ramsay, why
go on saying that?

3

“ Perhaps you will wake up and find the sun
shining and the birds singing,” she said com¬
passionately, smoothing the little boy’s hair, for
her husband, with his caustic saying that it would
not be fine, had dashed his spirits she could see.
This going to the Lighthouse was a passion of*
his, she saw, and then, as if her husband had not
28

the window

said enough, with his caustic saying that it would
not be fine to-morrow, this odious little man went
and rubbed it in all over again.

Perhaps it will be fine to-morrow,” she said,
smoothing his hair. ’

All she could do now was to admire the re¬
frigerator, and turn the pages of the Stores list
in the hope that she might come upon something
like a rake, or a mowing-machine, which, with
its prongs and its handles, would need the greatest
skill and care in cutting out. All these young men
parodied her husband, she reflected; he said it
would ram; they said it would be a positive tornado.

But here, as she turned the page, suddenly her
search for the picture of a rake or a mowing-
machine was interrupted. The gruff murmur,
irregularly broken by the taking out of pipes
and the putting in of pipes which had kept on
assuring her, though she could not hear what
was said (as she sat in the window), that the
men were happily talking; this sound, which
had lasted now half an hour and had taken its
place soothingly in the scale of sounds pressing
on top of her, such as the tap of balls upon
bats, the sharp, sudden bark now and then
“ Plow’s that? How’s that? ” of the children
playing cricket, had ceased; so that the monoton¬
ous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the

29

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to
her thoughts and seemed consolingly to repeat over
and over again as she sat with the children the
words of some old cradle song, murmured by
nature, “ I am guarding you—I am your sup¬
port ”, but at other times suddenly and unex¬
pectedly, especially when her mind raised itself
slightly from the task actually in hand, had n<>
such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll <>f
drums remorselessly beat the measure of life, made
one think of the destruction of the island and its
engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose- day
had slipped past in one quick doing after another
that it was all ephemeral as a rainbow—this sound
which had been obscured and concealed umler the
other sounds suddenly thundered hollow in her ears
and made her look up with an impulse of terror.

They had ceased to talk; that was the explana¬
tion. Falling in one second from the tension
which had gripped her to the other extreme which,
as if to recoup her for her unnecessary expense of
emotion, was cool, amused, and even faint!v
malicious, she concluded that poor Charles
Tansley had been. shed. That was eff little
account to her. If her husband required sacnfkes
(and indeed he did) she cheerfully offered up to him
Charles Tansley, who had snubbed her little hoy.
One moment more, with her head raised, she

3 °

THE WINDOW

listened, as if she waited for some habitual sound,
some regular mechanical sound; and then, hearing
something rhythmical, half said, half chanted^
beginning in the garden, as her husband beat up’
and down the terrace, something between a croak
and a song, she was soothed once more, assured
again that all was well, and looking down at the
book on her knee found the picture of a pocket
^nife with six blades which could only be cut out
if James was very careful.

Suddenly a loud cry, as of a sleep-walker, half

roused, something about

btormed at with shot and shell

sung out with the utmost intensity in her eir
made her turn apprehensively to sec if any one’
heard him. Only Lily Briscoe, she was glkd
hnd; and that did,not matter. But the shfot
of the girl standing on the edge of the lawn
painting reminded her; she was supposed to he
keeping her head as much in the same position
as possible for Lily’s picture. Lily’s picture!
Mrs. Ramsay smiled. With her little Chinese
eyes and her puckered-up face she would never
marry one could not take her painting very
seriously; but she was an independent little
creature, Mrs. Ramsay liked her for it, and so
remembering her promise, she bent her head.

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

4

Indeed, he almost knocked her easel over,
coming down upon her with his hands waving,
shouting out “ Boldly we rode and well ”, but,
mercifully, he turned sharp, and rode oft', to die
gloriously she supposed upon the heights of
Balaclava. Never was anybody at once so ridicu¬
lous and so alarming. But so long as he kept like
that, waving, shouting, she was safe; he would
not stand still and look at her picture. And that
was what Lily Briscoe could not have endured, r
Even while she looked at the mass, at the line, at
the colour, at Mrs. Ramsay sitting in the window
with James, she kept a feeler on her surroundings
lest someone should creep up, and suddenly she *
should find her picture looked at. But now, with
alPher senses quickened as they were, looking,
straining, till the colour of the wall and the
jacmanna beyond burnt into her eyes, she was
aware of someone coming out of the house,
coming towards her; but somehow divined, from
the footfall, William Bankes, so that though her
brush quivered, she did not, as she would have
done had it been Mr. Tansley, Paul Rayley,
Minta Doyle, or practically anybody else, turn
her canvas upon, the grass, but let it stand.
William Bankes stood beside her.

32

the window

I nver 5
wiving,
", but,
to die
Jits of
ridieu-
opt like
woll ] c |
nil. that
i du red.
line, at
window
t rulings
nly she
>w, with
ooking,
md the
:hc was
house,
d, trom
igh her
Id have
Ray ley,
so, turn

They had rooms in the village, and so, walking

-. q ’ W ^ k ! ng ° Ut) P artm g late on door-mats, had

child K gS ab ° Ut thG S ° U P’ about the
hddren about one thing and another which made

hem allies; so that when he stood beside her

now in his judicial way (he was old enough to be

her father too, a botanist, a widower, smelling of

theT; VC 2 SarUpul ° US and dean ) ^e just stood
there He just stood there. Her shoes were

excellent, he observed. They allowed the toes

houl^?^ eX f nsion ' Lod & in g « the same
wi h her he had noticed too, how orderly

-he was, up before breakfast and off to paint, hi

bebeved, alone: poor, presumably, and without the

complexion or the allurement of Miss Doyle

er am y, ut with a good sense which made her

f 18 CyeS SU P erior t0 that young lady. Now
for instance, when Ramsay bore down on them’

outing, gesticulating, Miss Briscoe, he felt
certain, understood.

Someone liad blundered.

Mr. R amsay glared at Hg ^

mTe T^" 8 '° Ke That did

make them both vaguely uncomfortable. To-

meanT t? “ ‘ f 1 " 8 tUy iad not

meant to see. They had encroached upon a

or movin g 5 for getting out of

33

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

earshot, that made Mr. Bankes almost immedi¬
ately say something about its being chilly and
suggest taking a stroll. She would come, yes.
But it was with difficulty that she took her eyes
off her picture.

The jacmanna was bright violet; the wall
staring white. She would not have consiucied it
honest to tamper with the bright violet and the
staring white, since she saw them like that,
fashionable though it was, since Mi. 1 autice-
forte’s visit, to see everything pale, elegant, semi¬
transparent. Then beneath the colour there was
the shape. She could see it all so clearly, so
commandingly, when she looked: it was when
she took her brush in hand that the whole thing
changed. It was in that moment’s flight between
the picture and her canvas that the demons set on
her who often brought her to the verge of tears
and made this passage from conception to work as
dreadful as any down a dark passage lor a child.
Such she often felt herself—struggling against
terrific odds to maintain her courage; to say:
“ But this is what I see; this is what I see ”, and so
to clasp some miserable remnant of her vision to
her breast, which a thousand forces did their best
to pluck from her. And it was then too, in
that chill and windy way, as she began to paint,
that there forced themselves upon her other
34

THE WINDOW

things, her own inadequacy, her insignificance,
keeping house for her father off the Brompton
Road, and had much ado to control her impulse
to fling herself (thank Heaven she had always
resisted so far) at Mrs. Ramsay’s knee and say
to her—but what could one say to her ? “ I’m

in love with you?” No, that was not true.
“ I’m in love with this all ”, waving her hand
at the hedge, at the house, at the children ?
It was absurd, it was impossible. One could
not say what one meant. So now she laid her
brushes neatly in the box, side by side, and said
to William Bankes:

It suddenly gets cold. The sun seems to
give less heat,” she said, looking about her, for it
was bright enough, the grass still a soft deep
green, the house starred in its greenery with
purple passion flowers, and rooks dropping cool
cries from the high blue. But something moved,
flashed, turned a silver wing in the air. It was
September after all, the middle of September, and
past six in the evening. So off they strolled down
the garden in the usual direction, past the tennis
lawn, past the pampas grass, to that break in the
thick hedge, guarded by red-hot pokers like
brasiers of clear burning coal, between which
the blue waters of the bay looked bluer than

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

They came there regularly every evening
drawn by some need. It was as if the water
floated off and set sailing thoughts which had
grown stagnant on dry land, and gave to their
bodies even some sort of physical relief. First,
the pulse of colour flooded the bay with blue,
and the heart expanded with it and the body
swam, only the next instant to be checked and
chilled by the prickly blackness on the ruffled
waves. Then, up behind the great black rock,
almost every evening spurted irregularly, so that
one had to watch for it and it was a delight when
it came, a fountain of white water; and then,
while one waited for that, one watched, on the
pale semicircular beach, wave after wave shedding
again and again smoothly a film of mother-of-'^
pearl.

They both smiled, standing there. They both
felt a common hilarity, excited by the moving
waves; and then by the swift cutting race of a
sailing boat, which, having sliced a curve in the
bay, stopped; shivered; let its sail drop down; and
then, with a natural instinct to complete the
picture, after this swift movement, both of them
looked at the dunes far away, and instead of
merriment felt come over them some sadness—
because the thing was completed partly, and
partly because distant views seem to outlast
36

the window

by a million years (Lily thought) the gazer and to
be communing already with a sky which beholds

an earth entirely at rest.

Looking at the far sand hills, William Bankes
thought of Ramsay: thought of a road in West¬
morland, thought of Ramsay striding along a
road by himself hung round with that solitude
which seemed to be his natural air. But this was
suddenly interrupted, William Bankes remem¬
bered (and this must refer to some actual incident),
by a hen, straddling her wings out in protection
of a covey of little chicks, upon which Ramsay,
stopping, pointed his stick and said “ Pretty
pretty, an odd illumination into his heart,
Bankes had thought it, which showed his sim¬
plicity, his sympathy with humble things; but it
seemed to him as if their friendship had ceased,
there, on that stietch of road. After that, Ramsay
had married. After that, what with one thing and
another, the pulp had gone out of their friendship.
Whose fault it was he could not say, only, after a
time, repetition had taken the place of newness.

It was to repeat that they met. But in this dumb
colloquy with the sand dunes he maintained that
his affection for Ramsay had in no way dim¬
inished; but there, like the body of a young
man laid up in peat for a century, with the red
fresh on his lips, was his friendship, in its

37

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

acuteness and reality laid up across the bay
among the sandhills.

He was anxious for the sake ot this inendship
and perhaps too in order to clear himself in his
own mind from the imputation of having dried
and shrunk—for Ramsay lived in a welter of
children, whereas Bankes was childless and a
widower—he was anxious that Lily Briscoe should
not disparage Ramsay (a great man in his own
way) yet should understand how filings stood
between them. Begun long years ago, their
friendship had petered out on a Westmorland
road, where the hen spread her wings Before her
chicks; after which Ramsay had married, and
their paths lying different ways, there had Been,
certainly for no one’s fault, some tendency, when
they met, to repeat.

Yes. That was it. He finished. I To turned
from the view. And, turning to walk Back the
other way, up the drive, Mr. Bankes was -alive to
things which would not have struck him had not
those sandhills revealed to him the Bodv of his
friendship lying with the red on its lips laid up in
peat—for instance, Cam, the little girl, Ramsay’s
youngest daughter. She was picking Sweet Alice
on the bank. She was wild and fierce. She would
not “ give a flower to the gentleman ” as the
nursemaid told her. No! no! no! she would not !
38

THE WINDOW

She clenched her fist. She stamped. And Mr.
Bankes felt aged and saddened and somehow put
into the wrong by her about his friendship. He
must have dried and shrunk.

The Ramsays were not rich, and it was a
wonder how they managed to contrive it all.
Eight children! To feed eight children on
philosophy! Here was another of them, Jasper
this time, strolling past, to have a shot at a bird,
he said, nonchalantly, swinging Lily’s hand like a
pump-handle as he passed, which caused Mr.
Bankes to say, bitterly, how she was a favourite.
There was education now to be considered (true,
Mrs. Ramsay had something of her own perhaps)
let alone the daily wear and tear of shoes and
stockings which those “ great fellows ”, all well
grown, angular, ruthless youngsters, must require.
As for being sure which was which, or in what
order they came, that was beyond him. He called
them privately after the Kings and Queens of
England; Cam the Wicked, James the Ruthless,
Andrew the Just, True the Fair—for Prue would
have beauty, he thought, how could she help it?—
and Andrew brains. While he walked up the
drive and Lily Briscoe said yes and no and capped
his comments (for she was in love with them all,
in love with this world) he weighed Ramsay’s case,
commiserated him, envied him, as if he had seen

39

him divest himself of all those glories of isolation
and austerity which crowned him in youth to
cumber himself definitely with fluttering wings
and clucking domesticities. They nave him some¬
thing— William Bankes acknowledged that; it
would have been pleasant it Cam had stink a
flower in his coat or clambered over his shoulder,
as over her father’s, to look at u putuie oi
Vesuvius in eruption; but they lun! also, his nlu
friends could not but feel, destroyed something.
What would a stranger think now: \\ hat itnl tins

Lily Briscoe think? Could one help nothing that
habits grew on him? eccentricities, weaknesses
perhaps? It was astonishing that a man n! his
intellect could stoop so low as he out—but tnat
was too harsh a phrase —could itepemi so much
as he did upon people’s praise.

“ Oh but,” said Lily, “ think oi his work! ”

Whenever she “thought of his work” she
always saw clearly before her a large kitchen
table. It was Andrew’s doing. She asked him
what his father’s books were about. “ Subject ami
object and the nature of reality", Andrew had said.
And when she said Heavens, she had no notion
what that meant. “Think of a kitchen table then”,
he told her, “ when you’re not there”.

So she always saw, when she thought of Mr.
Ramsay’s work, a scrubbed kitchen table. It
40

>lation
ith to
wings
some-
at; it
uck a
ulder,
re of
is old
:hing.
d this
l that
lesses
>f his
: that
nuch

d ”
she
:chen
him
t and
said,
otion
ten”,

Mr.

It

THE WINDOW

lodgeci now in the fork of a pear tree, for they
had reached the orchard. And with a painful
effort of concentration, she focused her mind
not upon the silver-bossed bark of the tree or
upon its fish-shaped leaves, but upon a p^om
kitchen table, one of those scrubbed board tables
grained and knotted, whose virtue seems to
have been laid bare by years of muscular integrity

if one’s S d UCk tilCre ’ kS f ° Ur ICgS ^ ain Natu ™%
essences 7h S ^ Seein S of: anguli

„ , • ’ blS reducin g of lovely evenings, with

wIite e H lT n§ ? d ° UdS Wue and s ^er to a

^>7 f d f ° UMegged table ( and was a mark
, e . nest mmds so to do), naturally one could
not be judged like an ordinary person.

Mr. Bankes liked her for bidding him “ think
of h, work ”, He had though, o/it, oftentnl
often. Times without number, he had said,

wo^kTf 13 ° n u ° f th ° Se men Wh ° do their best
work before they are forty ”. He had made

a defimte contribution to philosophy in one little

book when he was only five and twenty; what

came after was more or less amplification, repeti-

• But the number of men who make a

definite contribution to anything whatsoever is

very small, he said, pausing by the pear tree, well

brushed, scrupulously exact, exquisitely judicial.

uddenly, as if the movement of his hand had

4i

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

released it, the load of her accumulated impres¬
sions of him tilted up, and down poured in a
ponderous avalanche all she felt about him. That
was one sensation. Then up rose in a fume the
essence of his being. That was another. She
felt herself transfixed by the intensity of her per¬
ception; it was his severity; his goodness. I
respect you (she addressed him silently) in every
atom; you are not vain; you are entirely im¬
personal; you are finer than Mr. Ramsay; you
are the finest human being that I know; you have
neither wife nor child (without any sexual feeling,
she longed to cherish that loneliness), you live
for science (involuntarily, sections of potatoes
rose before her eyes); praise would be an insult
to you; generous, pure-hearted, heroic man!
But simultaneously, she remembered how he had
brought a valet all the way up here; objected
to dogs on chairs; would prose for hours (until
Mr. Ramsay slammed out of the room) about
salt in vegetables and the iniquity of English
cooks.

How then did it work out, all this? How
did one judge people, think of them? How did
one add up this and that and conclude that it
was liking one felt, or disliking? And to those
words, what meaning attached, after all? Stand¬
ing now, apparently transfixed, by the pear tree,
42

impres-
ed in a
That
mie the
r. She
ler per-
less. I
in every
ely im-
iy; you
ou have
feeling,
ou live
lotatoes
n insult
; man!
he had
>bjected
s (until
) about
English

How
iow did
that it
o those
Stand-
ar tree,

, THE window

impressions poured in upon her of those two
men, and to follow her thought was like following
a voice which speaks too quickly to be taken down
by one s pencil, and the voice was her own voice
saying without prompting undeniable, everlasting,
contradictory things, so that even the fissures
and humps on the bark of the pear tree were
irrevocably fixed there for eternity. You have
greatness, she continued, but Mr. Ramsay has
none of it.^ He is petty, selfish, vain, egotistical;
he is spoilt; he is a tyrant; he wears Mrs.
Ramsay to death; but he has what you (she
addressed Mr. Bankes) have not; a fiery unworld¬
liness; he knows nothing about trifles; he loves
dogs and his children. He has eight. You
have none. . Did he not come down in two coats
the other night and let Mrs. Ramsay trim his
hair into a pudding basin? All of this danced
up and down, like a company of gnats, each
separate, but all marvellously controlled in an
invisible elastic net—danced up and down in
Lily’s mind, in and about the branches of the
pear tree, where still hung in effigy the scrubbed
kitchen table, symbol of her profound respect for
Mr. Ramsay’s mind, until her thought which had
spun quicker and quicker exploded of its own
intensity; she felt released; a shot went off
close at hand, and there came, flying from its

43

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

fragments, frightened, effusive, tumultuous, a
flock of starlings.

“Jasper!” said Mr. Bankes. They turned
the way the starlings flew, over the terrace.
Following the scatter of swift-flying birds in the
sky they stepped through the gap in the high
hedge straight into Mr. Ramsay, who boomed
tragically at them, “ Someone had blundered! ”

His eyes, glazed with emotion, defiant with
tragic intensity, met theirs for a second, and
trembled on the verge of recognition; but then,
raising his hand half-way to his face as if to avert,
to brush off, in an agony of peevish shame, their
normal gaze, as if he begged them to withhold for
a moment what he knew to be inevitable, as if he
impressed upon them his own child-like resent-
ment of interruption, yet even in the moment of
discovery was not to be routed utterly, but was
determined to hold fast to something of this
delicious emotion, this impure rhapsody of which
he was ashamed, but in which he revelled—he
turned abruptly, slammed his private door on
them; and, Lily Briscoe and Mr. Bankes, looking
uneasily up into the sky, observed that the flock
of starlings which Jasper had routed with his gun
had settled on the tops of the elm trees.

THE WINDOW

:uous, a

r turned
terrace.
Is in the
:he high
boomed
xed! ”
int with
nd, and
>ut then,
to avert,
me, their
ihold for
as if he
: resent¬
ment of
but was
of this
sf which
lied—he
door on
looking
:he flock
his gun

And even if it isn’t fine to-morrow,” said
rs. Ramsay, raising her eyes to glance at
William Bankes and Lily Briscoe as they passed,
it wfl! be another day. And now,” she said,
thinking that Lily s charm was her Chinese eyes
aslant in her white, puckered little face, but it
would take a clever man to see it, “ and now stand
up, and let me measure your leg,” for they might
go to the Lighthouse after all, and she must see
if the stocking did not need to be an inch or two
longer in the leg.

Smiling, for an admirable idea had flashed
upon her this very second—William and Lily
should marry—she took the heather mixture
stocking, with its criss-cross of steel needles

at the mouth of it, and measured it against
James’s leg.

. “ dear ’. stand still,” she said, for in his

jealousy, not liking to serve as measuring-block
for the Lighthouse keeper’s little boy, James
fidgeted purposely; and if he did that, how could

she see, was it too long, was it too short ? she
asked.

She looked up—what demon possessed him
her youngest, her cherished?—and saw the room’

4 S

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

saw the chairs, thought them fearfully shabby.
Their entrails, as Andrew said the other day, were
all over the floor; but then what was the point,
she asked herself, of buying good chairs to let
them spoil up here all through the winter when
the house, with only one old woman to see to
it, positively dripped with wet? Never mind:
the rent was precisely twopence halfpenny; the
children loved it; it did her husband good to
be three thousand, or if she must be accurate,
three hundred miles from his library and his
lectures and his disciples; and there was room
for visitors. Mats, camp beds, crazy ghosts of
chairs and tables whose London life of service
was done—they did well enough here; and a
photograph or two, and books. Books, she
thought, grew of themselves. She never had
time to read them. Alas ! even the books that
had been given her, and inscribed by the hand
of the poet himself: “For her whose wishes
must be obeyed ” . . . “ The happier Helen of
our days ” . . . disgraceful to say, she had

never read them. And Croom on the Mind
and Bates on the Savage Customs of Polynesia
(“ My dear, stand still,” she said)—neither of
those could one send to the Lighthouse. At a
certain moment, she supposed, the house would
become so shabby that something must be
46

ml

y shabby,
day, were
the point,
iirs to let
nter when
to see to
mr mind:
snny; the
good to
accurate,
r and his
was room
ghosts of
}f service
e; and a
>oks, she
tever had
ooks that
the hand
;e wishes
Helen of
she had
be Mind
Polynesia
either of
e. At a
ise would
must be

the window

done. If they could be taught to wipe their feet
and not bring the beach in with them—that
would be something. Crabs, she had to allow if
Andrew really wished to dissect them, or if Jasper
believed that one could make soup from seaweed
one could not prevent it; or Rose’s objects—
shells, reeds, stones; for they were gifted, her
c lldren, but all in quite different ways. And
the result of it was, she sighed, taking in the
whole room from floor to ceiling, as she held
the stocking against James’s leg, that things
go shabbier and got shabbier summer after
summer. The mat was fading; the wall-paper was
apping. You couldn’t tell any more that those
were roses on it. Still, if every door in a house is
left perpetually open, and no lockmaker in the
whole of Scotland can mend a bolt, things must
spoil. What was the use of flinging a green
Cashmere shawl over the edge of a picture frame?
In two weeks it would be the colour of pea soup
But it was the doors that annoyed her; every door
was left open. She listened. The drawing-room
door was open; the hall door was open- it
sounded as if the bedroom doors were open- and
certainly the window on the landing was open
for that she had opened herself. That windows
should be open, and doors shut—simple as it was
could none of them remember it? She would go

47

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

into the maids’ bedrooms at night and find them
sealed like ovens, except for Marie’s, the Swiss
girl, who would rather go without a bath than
without fresh air, but then at home, she had said,
“the mountains are so beautiful.” She had said
that last night looking out of the window with
tears . in her eyes. “ The mountains are so
beautiful.” Her father was dying there, Mrs.
Ramsay knew. He was leaving them fatherless.
Scolding and demonstrating (how to make a bed,
how to open a window, with hands that shut and
spread like a Frenchwoman’s) all had folded
itself quietly about her, when the girl spoke, as,
after a flight through the sunshine the wings of a
bird fold themselves quietly and the blue of its
plumage changes from bright steel to soft purple
She had stood there silent for there was nothing

to be said. He had cancer of the throat. At the
recollection—how she had stood there, how the
gir hah said “At home the mountains are so
beautiful”, and there was no hope, no hope what¬
ever, she had a spasm of irritation, and speaking

sharply, said to James:

Stand still. Don’t be tiresome,” so that he
new instantly that her severity was real, and
s raig tened his leg and she measured it.

The stocking was too short by half an inch at
east, making allowance for the fact that Sorley’s

• find them
the Swiss
bath than
e had said,
ie had said
idow with
ns are so
tere, Mrs.
fatherless,
ake a bed,
t shut and
ad folded
spoke, as,
wings of a
>lue of its
>ft purple. r
^ nothing
t. At th§

, how the
ns are so
ope what-
speaking

io that he
real, and

.n inch at
t Sorley’s

the window

Janfes W ° U ^ * ess we ^ grown than

It s too short,” she said, “ ever so much
too short.

Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter and
ack half-way down, m the darkness, in the shaft
which ran from the sunlight to the depths, perhaps
ear ormed; a tear fell; the waters swayed this
way and that, received it, and were at rest. Never
did anybody look so sad.

But was it nothing but looks ? people said.
What was there behind it—her beauty, her

S ^, e ” °^ r ' be blown his brains out, they

asked, had he died the week before they were
married—some other, earlier lover, of whom
rumours reached one? Or was there nothing?

r° J****, an incom P arabIe beauty which she
ive e md, and could do nothing to disturb?
or easily though she might have said at some
moment of intimacy when stories of great passion,
ve foiled, of ambition thwarted came her
way how she too had known or felt or been
roug it herself, she never spoke. She was
silent always. She knew then—she knew without
having learnt. Her simplicity fathomed what
dever people falsified. Her singleness of mind
made her drop plumb like a stone, alight exact as
lr j gave her, naturally, this swoop and fall of

49

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

the spirit upon truth which delighted, eased
sustained—falsely perhaps.

(“ Nature has but little clay ”, said Mr. Bankes
once, hearing her voice on the telephone, and much
moved by it though she was only telling him a fact
about a train, “ like that of which she moulded
you.” He saw her at the end of the line,
Greek, blue-eyed, straight-nosed. How incon¬
gruous it seemed to be telephoning to a woman
like that. The Graces assembling seemed to
have joined hands in meadows of asphodel to
compose that face. Yes, he would catch the
10.30 at Euston.

“ But she’s no more aware of her beauty than
a child,” said Mr. Bankes, replacing the receiver
and crossing the room to see what progress the
workmen were making with an hotel which they
were building at the back of his house. And he
thought of Mrs. Ramsay as he looked at that stir
among the unfinished walls. For always, he
thought, there was something incongruous to be
worked into the harmony of her face. She clapped
a deer-stalker s hat on her head; she ran across
the lawn in goloshes to snatch a child from
mischief. So that if it was her beauty merely
that one thought of, one must remember the
quivering thing, the living thing (they were
carrying bricks up a little plank as he watched
5 °

THE WINDOW

them), and work it into the picture; or if one
thought of her simply as a woman, one must
endow her with some freak of idiosyncrasy or
suppose some latent desire to doff her royalty of
form as if her beauty bored her and all that men
say of beauty, and she wanted only to be like other
people, insignificant. He did not know. He did
not know. He must go to his work.)

. knitting her reddish-brown hairy stocking,
with her head outlined absurdly by the gilt frame 5
the green shawl which she had tossed over the
edge of the frame, and the authenticated master¬
piece by Michael Angelo, Mrs. Ramsay smoothed
out what had been harsh in her manner a moment
before, raised his head, and kissed her little boy

on the forehead. -Let’s find another picture to
cut out,” she said.

But what had happened?

Someone had blundered.

Starting from her musing she gave meaning
to words which she had held meaningless in her
mind for a long stretch of time. “ Someone had
blundered —Fixing her short-sighted eyes upon
her husband, who was now bearing down upon
her she gazed steadily until his closeness revealed
to her (the jingle mated itself in her head) that

5 *

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

something had happened, someone had blundered.
But she could not for the life of her think

what.

He shivered; he quivered. All his vanity, all
his satisfaction in his own splendour, riding fell as
a thunderbolt, fierce as a hawk at the head of his
men through the valley of death, had been shattered,
destroyed. Stormed at by shot and shell, boldly
we rode and well, flashed through the valley of
death, volleyed and thundered—straight into Lily
Briscoe and William Bankes. He quivered; he
shivered.

Not for the world would she have spoken to
him, realising, from the familiar signs, his eyes
averted, and some curious gathering together of
his person, as if he wrapped himself about and
needed privacy into which to regain his equilib¬
rium, that he was outraged and anguished. She
stroked James’s head; she transferred to him what
she felt for her husband, and, as she watched him
chalk yellow the white dress shirt of a gentleman
in the Army and Navy Stores catalogue, thought
what a delight it would be to her should he turn
out a great artist; and why should he not? He
had a splendid forehead. Then, looking up, as
her husbahfr^’passed he|r once more, she was
relieved to find that the huin was veiled; domes¬
ticity triumphed; custom! crooned its soothing
52 . \

THE WINDOW

rhythm, so that when stopping deliberately, as his
turn came round again, at the window he bent
quizzically and whimsically to tickle James’s bare
calf with a sprig of something, she twitted him for
having dispatched “that poor young man”,
Charles Tansley. Tansley had had to go in and
write his dissertation, he said.

“ J ames wil1 have to write his dissertation one
of these days,” he added ironically, flicking his
sprig.

Hating his father, James brushed away the
tickling spray with which in a manner peculiar to
him, compound of severity and humour, he teased
his youngest son’s bare leg.

. Was trying to get these tiresome stockings
finished to send to Sorley’s little boy to-morrow
said Mrs. Ramsay. ’

There wasn’t the slightest possible chance
that they could go to the Lighthouse to-morrow,
Mr. Ramsay snapped out irascibly.

How did he know? she asked. The wind often
changed.

The extraordinary irrationality of her remark,
the folly of women’s minds enraged him He
had ridden through the valley of death,’ been
shattered and shivered; and now she flew in
the face of facts, made his children hope what
was utterly out of the question, in effect, told

S 3

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

lies. He stamped his foot on the stone step.
“ Damn you,” he said. But what had she said?
Simply that it might be fine to-morrow. So it
might.

Not with the barometer falling and the wind
due west.

To pursue truth with such astonishing lack of
consideration for other people’s feelings, to rend
the thin veils of civilisation so wantonly, so
brutally, was to her so horrible an outrage of
human decency that, without replying, dazed
and blinded, she bent her head as if to let the
pelt of jagged hail, the drench of dirty water,
bespatter her unrebuked. There was nothing
to be said.

He stood by her in silence. Very humbly, at
length, he said that he would step over and ask
the Coastguards if she liked.

There was nobody whom she reverenced as
she reverenced him.

She was quite ready to take his word for it,
she said. Only then they need not cut sandwiches
—that was all. They came to her, naturally,
since she was a woman, all day long with this and
that; one wanting this, another that; the children
were growing up; she often felt she was nothing
but a sponge sopped full of human emotions.
Then he said, Damn you. He said, It must rain.
54

THE WINDOW

He said, It won’t rain; and instantly a Heaven of
security opened before her. There was nobody
she reverenced more. She was not good enough
to tie his shoe strings, she felt.

Already ashamed of that petulance, of that
gesticulation of the hands when charging at the
head of his troops, Mr. Ramsay rather sheepishly
prodded his son’s bare legs once more, and then,
as if he had her leave for it, with a movement
which oddly reminded his wife of the great sea
lion at the Zoo tumbling backwards after swallow¬
ing his fish and walloping off so that the water in
the tank washes from side to side, he dived into
the evening air which, already thinner, was taking
the substance from leaves and hedges but, as if in
return, restoring to roses and pinks a lustre which
they had not had by day.

“ Someone had blundered,” he said again,
striding off, up and down the terrace.

But how extraordinarily his note had changed!
It was like the cuckoo; “ in June he gets out of
tune ”; as if he were trying over, tentatively
seeking, some phrase for a new mood, and having
only this at hand, used it, cracked though it was.
But it sounded ridiculous—“ Someone had blun¬
dered said like that, almost as a question,
without any conviction, melodiously. Mrs.
Ramsay could not help smiling, and soon, sure

ss

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

enough, walking up and down, he hummed it,
dropped it, fell silent.

He was safe, he was restored to his privacy.
He stopped to light his pipe, looked once at his
wife and son in the window, and as one raises one’s
eyes from a page in an express train and sees a
farm, a tree, a cluster of cottages as an illustration,
a confirmation of something on the printed page
to which one returns, fortified, and satisfied, so
without his distinguishing either his son or his
wife, the sight of them fortified him and satisfied
him and consecrated his effort to arrive at a
perfectly clear understanding of the problem which
now engaged the energies of his splendid mind.

It was a splendid mind. For if thought is like
the keyboard of a piano, divided into so many
notes, or like the alphabet is ranged in twenty-six
letters all in order, then his splendid mind had
no sort of difficulty in running over those letters
one by one, firmly and accurately, until it had
reached, say, the letter Q. He reached Q.
Very few people in the whole of England ever
reach Q. Here, stopping for one moment by
the stone urn which held the geraniums, he
saw, but now far far away, like children pick¬
ing up shells, divinely innocent and occu¬
pied with little trifles at their feet and somehow
entirely defenceless against a doom which he
56

mmed it,

3 privacy,
ice at his
tises one’s
nd sees a
ustration,
ited page
tisfied, so
on or his
i satisfied
rive at a
:em which
d mind,
ght is like
so many
:wenty-six
mind had
ose letters
til it had
ached Q.
land ever
oment by
hums,. he
ren pick-
nd occu-
somehow
which he

THE WINDOW

perceived, his wife and son, together, in the
window. They needed his protection; he gave it
them. But after Q? What comes next? After Q
there are a number of letters the last of which is
scarcely visible to mortal eyes, but glimmers red in
the distance. Z is only reached once by one man
in a generation. Still, if he could reach R it
would be something. Here at least was Q. He
dug his heels in at Q. Q he was sure of. Q

he could demonstrate. If Q then is Q_R_

Here he knocked his pipe out, with two or three
resonant taps on the ram’s horn which made the
handle of the urn, and proceeded. “ Then R ...”

He braced himself. He clenched himself.

Qualities that would have saved a ship’s
company exposed on a broiling sea with six
biscuits and a flask of water—endurance and
justice, foresight, devotion, skill, came to his help.

R is then—what is R?

A shutter, like the leathern eyelid of a lizard,
flickered over the intensity of his gaze and ;

obscured the letter R. In that flash of darkness he
heard people saying—he was a failure—that R
was beyond him. He would never reach R. On 1

to R, once more. R-

Qualities that in a desolate expedition across
the icy solitudes of the Polar region would have
made him the leader, the guide, the counsellor,

$7

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

whose temper, neither sanguine nor despondent, *
surveys with equanimity what is to be and faces it,

came to his help again. R-

The lizard’s eye flickered once more. The
veins on his forehead bulged. The geranium in
the urn became startlingly visible and, displayed
among its leaves, he could see, without wishing it,
that old, that obvious distinction between the two
classes of men; on the one hand the steady goers
of superhuman strength who, plodding and
persevering, repeat the whole alphabet in order,
twenty-six letters in all, from start to finish; on
the other the gifted, the inspired who, miracu¬
lously, lump all the letters together in one flash—
the way of genius. He had not genius; he laid no
claim to that: but he had, or might have had, the.
power to repeat every letter of the alphabet from
A to Z accurately in order. Meanwhile, he stuck
at Q. On, then, on to R,

Feelings that would not have disgraced a
leader who, now that the snow has begun to fall
and the mountain-top is covered in mist, knows
that he must lay himself down and die before
morning comes, stole upon him, paling the
colour of his eyes, giving him, even in the two
minutes of his turn on the terrace, the bleached
look of withered old age. Yet he would not die
lying down; he would find some crag of rock, and

ondent,"^
faces it,

The
aium in
[splayed
shing it,
the two
ly goers

ig.and

1 order,
;ish; on
miracu- '
flash—

: laid no
had, the '
>et from
ae stuck

raced 2
1 to fall
, knows
: before
Ing the
the twc
(leached
not die
>ck, and

-— the window

there, his eyes fixed on the storm, trying to the
end to pierce the darkness, he would die stand-
ing. He would never reach R.

He stood stock still, by the urn, with the
geranium flowing over it. How many men in
a thousand million, he asked himself, reach Z
after all? Surely the leader of a forlorn hope may
ask himself that, and answer, without treachery
to the expedition behind him, “ One perhaps ”
One in a generation. Is he to be blamed then if
he is not that one? provided he has toiled honestly
given to the best of his power, till he has no
more left to give? And his fame lasts how long?
It is permissible even for a dying hero to think
before he dies how men will speak of him here¬
after. His fame lasts perhaps two thousand

W ^ at are two t ^ ousan d years? (asked
r. Ramsay ironically, staring at the hedge).
What, indeed, if you look from a mountain-top
down the long wastes of the ages? The very
stone one kicks with one’s boot will outlast
Shakespeare. His own little light would shine •
not very brightly, for a year or two, and would
then be merged in some bigger light, and that
m a bigger still. (He looked into the darkness,
into the intricacy of the twigs.) Who then could
blame the leader of that forlorn party which after
all has climbed high enough to see the waste of

59

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

the years and the perishing of stars, if before
death stiffens his limbs beyond the power of
movement he does a little consciously raise his
numbed fingers to his brow, and square his
shoulders, so that when the search party comes
they will find him dead at his post, the fine figure
of a soldier? Mr. Ramsay squared his shoulders
and stood very upright by the urn.

Who shall blame him, if, so standing for a
moment, he dwells upon fame, upon search
parties, upon cairns raised by grateful followers
over his bones? Finally, who shall blame the
leader of the doomed expedition, if, having
adventured to the uttermost, and used his strength
wholly to the last ounce and fallen asleep not much
caring if he wakes or not, he now perceives by'
some pricking in his toes that he lives, and does
not on the whole object to live, but requires
sympathy, and whisky, and someone to tell the
story of his suffering to at once? Who shall
blame him? Who will not secretly rejoice when
the hero puts his armour off, and halts by the
window and gazes at his wife and son, who
very distant at first, gradually come closer and
closer, till lips and book and head are clearly
before him, though still lovely and unfamiliar
from the intensity of his isolation and the waste •
of ages and the perishing of the stars, and finally ;
60

f before
>ower of
raise his
uare his
:y comes
tie figure
houlders

— THE WINDOW

IpF

putting his pipe in his pocket and bending his
magnificent head before her—who will blame
him if he does homage to the beauty of the world?

7

But his son hated him. He hated him for

ng for a
i search
followers
lame the
, having
strength
not much
reives by
and does
requires
> tell the
?ho shall
ice when
:s by the
son, who
oser and
e clearly
nfamiliar
:he waste
id finally

coming up to them, for stopping and looking

own on them; he hated him for interrupting
them; he hated him for the exaltation and sub¬
limity of his gestures; for the magnificence of
ins head; for his exactingness and egotism (for
t ere he stood, commanding them to attend to
him); but most of all he hated the twang and
twitter of his father’s emotion which, vibrating
round them, disturbed the perfect simplicity and
good sense of his relations with his mother By
looking fixedly at the page, he hoped to make
lm move on; by pointing his finger at a word,
he hoped to recall his mother’s attention, which,
he knew angrily, wavered instantly his father
stopped. But no. Nothing would make Mr.

Ramsay move on. There he stood, demanding
sympathy. &

Mrs. Ramsay, who had been sitting loosely,
olding her son in her arm, braced herself, and,
half turning, seemed to raise herself with an effort,
and at once to pour erect into the air a rain of

61

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

energy, a column of spray, looking at the same
time animated and alive as if all her energies were
being fused into force, burning and illuminating
(quietly though she sat, taking up her stocking
again), and into this delicious fecundity, this
fountain and spray of life, the fatal sterility of the
male plunged itself, like a beak of brass, barren
and bare. He wanted sympathy. He was a
failure, he said. Mrs. Ramsay flashed her
needles. Mr. Ramsay repeated, never taking his
eyes from her face, that he was a failure. She blew
the words back at him. “ Charles Tansley ...”
she said. But he must have more than that.
It was- sympathy he wanted, to be assured of his
genius, first of all, and then to be taken within
the circle of life, warmed and soothed, to have'
his senses restored to him, his barrenness made
fertile, and all the rooms of the house made full
of life—the drawing-room; behind the drawing¬
room the kitchen; above the kitchen the bedrooms;
and beyond them the nurseries; they must be
furnished, they must be filled with life.

Charles Tansley thought him the greatest
metaphysician of the time, she said. But he
must have -.more than that. He must have
sympathy. H.e must be assured that he too lived
in the heart of life; was needed; not here only,
but all over the world. Flashing herJneedVs,

62 ' , I

' the window

^ u P r ^ ilt ’ siie created drawing-room and

eas tT’ SCt dI agl ° W; bade take his
1 u n m and ° Ut ’ en i °7 himself. She
T f; S T dinghetWeen ^rknees,

to La ’ J am ? fet 3 her stren gth flaring up
to be drunk and quenched by the beak of brass

Iessly" 1 aff 1 ”’ 1 ™ 1 ^ ^ ^ ^ Whidl Sm ° te merci '
essly, again and again, demanding sympathy.

e was a failure, he repeated. Well look

then feel then. Hashing £ needles"!, "

round about her out of the window, into the room

James himself, she assured him, beyond a

shadow of a doubt, by her laugh, her pofse her

competence (as a nurse carrying a light acrks a

dark room assures a fractious child),‘that it was

real; the house was All; the garden blowing If hJ

put implicit faith in her, nothing should hurt him

however deep he buried himself or climbed high’

her So" b eC °p ^ he fi " d hi ™elf withfui
and' proLtTe” 8 " *° ™”d

ana protect, there was scarcely a shell of herself
eft for her to know herself by; all was so lav sh d

h:r^Arh J e?2ei h :r; tiffb «-

h^h IeaV£S and danci 4 bougks into

which the beak of brass th~ „ S . g into

father th* , ■ . ^ 5 the and scimitar of his

rather, the egotistical man, plunged and smote
demanding sympathy. S smote,

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Filled with her words, like a child who drops
off satisfied, he said, at last, looking at her with
humble gratitude, restored, renewed, that he
would take a turn; he would watch the children
playing cricket. He went.

Immediately, Mrs. Ramsay seemed to fold
herself together, one petal closed in another, and
the whole fabric fell in exhaustion upon itself,
so that she had only strength enough to move her
finger, in exquisite abandonment to exhaustion,
across the page of Grimm’s fairy story, while there
throbbed through her, like the pulse in a spring
which has expanded to its full width and now
gently ceases to beat, the rapture of successful
creation.

Every throb of this pulse seemed, as he walked'
away, to enclose her and her husband, and to give
to each that solace which two different notes, one
high, one low, struck together, seem to give each
other as they combine. Yet, as the resonance
died, and she turned to the Fairy Tale again, Mrs.
Ramsay felt not only exhausted in body (after-
wards, not at the time, she always felt this) but
also there tinged her physical fatigue some faintly
disagreeable sensation with another origin. Not
that, as she read aloud the story of the Fisherman’s
Wife, she knew precisely what it came from; nor
did she let herself put into words her dissatis-

THE WINDOW

faction when she realised, at the turn of the pane

™ve n M e h tOP?ed “ d he!lrd duU J'> °™nousfy, a
wave fall, how it came from this: she did not like

even for a second, to feel finer than her husband

and further, could not bear not being entirely sure’

lectures and books and their beiiJg'oTthe Wghea
importance all drat she did not doubt Ir a
moment; but it was their relation, and his comLg

tha? d lke op “ l * 50 that “yone could see 8
diat discomposed her; for then people said he

epended on her, when they must know that of

the two he was infinitely the more important Ind

what she gave the world, in comparison with what

oL g rThi„“ 8l ' 8lb,e - ^ ^ wasle

trutl w"! 8 ab ‘ e '° tdl him the

We roof a nd the expense i’t would be fifty'

boo\ ?K ha ? S ’ t0 mend k; and then a bout his
books, to be afraid that he might guess h

a htt e suspected, that his lastloof^ ^

IS best book (she gathered that from Wiliam

Banke^ and then to hide small daily things and

the children seeing it, and the burden it faid on

em—all this diminished the entire joy, the pure

sound dt ‘oTher “ S ° Unding ^ W the

and die on her ear now w,th a dismal flatness.

JC.

■ -6S.

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

A shadow was on the page; she looked up. It
was Augustus Carmichael shuffling past, pre¬
cisely now, at the very moment when it was painful
to be reminded of the inadequacy of human
relationships, that the most perfect was flawed,
and could not bear the examination which, loving
her husband, with her instinct for truth, she
turned upon it; when it was painful to feel herself
convicted of unworthiness, and impeded in her
proper function by these lies, these exaggerations,
—it was at this moment when she was fretted
thus ignobly in the wake of her exaltation, that
Mr. Carmichael shuffled past, in his yellow
slippers, and some demon in her made it necessary
for her to call out, as he passed,

“ Going indoors, Mr. Carmichael? ”

8

He said nothing. He took opium. The
children said he had stained his beard yellow
with it. Perhaps. What was obvious to her
was that the. poor man was unhappy, came to
them every yea\ as an escape; and yet every year,
she felt the same thing; he did not trust her!
She said, “ I am going to the town. Shall I get
you stamps, paper* tobacco? ” and she felt him
wince. He did not trust her. It was his wife’s

^ the window

doing. She remembered that • •

Wife’s towards him, which had Jr his
steel and adamant there in the h m ? r fLirn to

St. John’s Wood, when tr r °° m

had seen that odious woman turn h"™ ^ She
house. He was ?? hlm out of &e

Ws coat; he IS Sel P ‘ dr ° Pped
with nothing in the ^0™“,,““
him out of the room °> and she turned

“ Now, Mrs Rams,’ ^ W her ° dious wa Y>

talk together'’?a„ d h a ” d B I ™ l W > ««£

before her eyes Shelrm* C ° U,d See > - if

life Had h, enumerable miseries of his

«« he hteWSIerStSh^ “

shrank from her He W °T SOmehow ) h <=
Bnt what more ciuld

a sunny room given up to him Tb c
were good to him. Never did 7b I *' tMdrcn
not wanting him. She went * a si f o{

to be friendlv n« f ofher indeed

tobacco? Here’s a ^bo t *^ Stam P s ’ do 7°u want

67

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

to her)—after all, she had not generally any
difficulty in making people like her; for instance
George Manning; Mr. Wallace; famous as they
were, they would come to her of an evening,
quietly, and talk alone over her fire. She bore
about with her, she could not help knowing it,
the torch of her beauty; she carried it erect into
any room that she entered; and after all, veil it as
she might, and shrink from the monotony of
bearing that it imposed on her, her beauty was
apparent. She had been admired. She had been
loved. She had entered rooms where mourners
sat. Tears had flown in her presence. Men, and
women too, letting go the multiplicity of things,
had allowed themselves with her the relief of
simplicity. It injured her that he should shrink.
It hurt her. And yet not cleanly, not rightly.
That was what she minded, coming as it did on
top of her discontent with her husband; the sense
she had now when Mr. Carmichael shuffled
past, just nodding to her question, with a book
beneath his arm, in his yellow slippers, that she
was suspected; and that all this desire of hers to
give, to help, was vanity. For her own self-
satisfaction was it that she wished so instinctively

he A 1 P’ t0 S ive > that People might say of her,
O Mrs. Ramsay! dear Mrs. Ramsay . . . Mrs.

Ramsay, of course! ” and need her and send for

68

the window

her and admire her? Was it not secretly this that

hLTt ' r th r f0re Wh “ Mr ' “-1

matant o/t ’ 38 ie did at this moment,

eTdtsfiv sh hT “T r where he did acrosti “

in her insti V^K " 0t a" 1 n ’ crd - 1 ' “nbbed back

joy, she had better devote her minH f *{ “

of the Fisherman and his Wfc Zt^Z
bundle of sens,tiveness (none of her chLren was
as sensmve as he was) her son James.

aloud " Tl’ S heart grew hea 'T." she read
aloud, and he would not o-o pr» 0

himself, ‘ It i s not rio-ht- ’ & * He said to

ot n S ht > an d yet he went And

when he came to the ^ a. „ a

i , , CJie sea tne water wa^ nnir^

And he stood there and said—_^

hushed kTZ chosen A* WiSlled *“ hCT
Why had he not gone as he s^T^e

children playmg cricket? But he did not sneak-

he looked: he norfrUH • 1 speak>

He slinnfaH ■ , r ^ ea PP rove d; he went on.

PP d seeing before him that hedge which

69

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

had over and over again rounded some pause
signified some conclusion, seeing his wife and
child, seeing again the urns with the trailing red
geraniums which had so often decorated processes
of thought, and bore, written up among their
leaves, as if they were scraps of paper on which
one scribbles notes in the rush of reading—he
slipped, seeing all this,. smoothly into specula¬
tion suggested by an article in The Times about the
number of Americans who visit Shakespeare’s
house every year. If Shakespeare had never
existed, he asked, would the world have differed
much from what it is to-day? Does the progress
of civilisation depend upon great men? Is the lot
of the average human being better now than in the
time of the Pharaohs? Is the lot of the average
human being, however, he asked himself, the
criterion by which we judge the measure of
civilisation? Possibly not. Possibly the greatest
good requires the existence of a slave class. The
hftman in the Tube is an eternal necessity.

he thought was distasteful to him. He tossed
ms heack To avoid it, he would find some way
of snubbing the predominance of the arts. He
would argue that the world exists for the average
uman emg, that the arts are merely a decora-
ion imposed on the top of human life; they do
not express it. Nor is Shakespeare necelsary to it.

— the window

Not knowing precisely why it was that he wanted
o isparage Shakespeare and come to the rescue
of the man who stands eternally in the door of the

tht h P ,i J d f d * leat sh ''rpjy from the hedge. All

of a count/V^ ^ thr ° Ugh tIle lanes and fields

all fammaw 5”'T fr ° m b ° 7h ° od ' I( » aa

*e Md H f n, " g ’ tl,at Stile > tha * cut noross

tape, of an evening, toWng^d'd^andt

with P po“ems and with anecdlmfwkhlg “ ^
fruitful nut-tree and !h fl ' *e

on to tha, feher turn of S w'ht ? S™

mounted always, tied his horse to a tree" 2 and
proceeded on foot alone. He reached lh 7*

wished it or not m “ pCCuliarit 3'> whether he

tor not, to come out thus on a spit of land

71

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

which the sea is slowly eating away, and there to
stand, like a desolate sea-bird, alone. It was his
power, his gift, suddenly to shed all superfluities,
to shrink and diminish so that he looked barer
and. felt sparer, even physically, yet lost none of
his intensity of mind, and so to stand on his little
ledge facing the dark of human ignorance, how
we know nothing and the sea eats away the ground
we stand on—that was his fate, his gift. But
having thrown away, when he dismounted, all
gestures and fripperies, all trophies of nuts and
roses, and shrunk so that not only fame but even
his own name was forgotten by him, he kept even
in that desolation a vigilance which spared no
phantom and luxuriated in no vision, and it was
in this guise that he inspired in William Bankes
(intermittently) and.in Charles Tansley (obsequi¬
ously) and in his wife now, when she looked up
and saw him standing at the edge of the lawn,
profound reverence, and pity, and gratitude too,
as a stake driven into the bed of a channel upon
w ic the gulls perch and the waves beat inspires
in merry boat-loads a feeling of gratitude for the
uty it has taken upon itself of marking the
channel out there in the floods alone.

“ But the father of eight children has no
nff ' j . ^-^cring half aloud, so he broke

’ Urne ’ sighed, raised his eyes, sought the

THE WINDOW

figure of his wife reading stories to the little
boy; filled his pipe. He turned from the sight of
human ignorance and human fate and the sea
eating the ground we stand on, which, had he
been able to contemplate it fixedly might have
led to something; and found consolation in
trifles so slight compared with the august theme
just now before him that he was disposed to slur
that comfort over, to deprecate it, as if to be
caught happy in a world of misery was for an
honest man the most despicable of crimes. It
was true; he was for the most part happy; he had
his wife; he had his children; he had promised
in six weeks’ time to talk “ some nonsense ” to
the young men of Cardiff about Locke, Hume,
Berkeley, and. the causes of the French Revolu¬
tion. But this and his pleasure in it, in the
phrases he made, in the ardour of youth, in his
wife’s beauty, in the tributes that reached him
from Swansea, Cardiff, Exeter, Southampton,
Kidderminster, Oxford, Cambridge—all had to
be deprecated and concealed under the phrase
talking nonsense,” because, in effect, he had
not done the thing he might have done. It was
a disguise; it was the refuge of a man afraid
to own his own feelings, who could not say,
This is what I like—this is what I am; and rather
pitiable and distasteful to William Bankes and

73

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Lily Briscoe, who wondered why such conceal-
ments should be necessary; why he needed always
praise; why so brave a man in thought should be
so timid in life; how strangely he was venerable
and laughable at one and the same time.

Teaching and preaching is beyond human 1
power, Lily suspected. (She was putting away

her things). If you are exalted you must somehow

come a cropper. Mrs. Ramsay gave him what
he asked too easily. Then the change must be so
upsetting, Lily said. He comes in from his
books and finds us all playing games and talking
nonsense. Imagine what a change from the thino-s
he thinks about 5 she said. b

He was bearing down upon them. Now he
stopped dead and stood looking in silence at the
sea. Now he had turned away again.

Yes, Mr. Bankes said, watching him go. It

ate) t°Tt PWeS ' ^ iad sa!d nothing

about his frightening her-he changed from on!
to another so suddenly.) Yes, said Mr.

could nor hT “ T" Slnd pMeS that Ramsay
could not behave a little more like other people

(For he hked Lily Briscoe; he could Ess'

^amsay with her quite openly.) It was f or that

the window

reason, he said, that the young don’t read Carlyle
A crusty old grumbler who lost his temper if the
porridge was cold, why should he preach to us?
was what Mr. Bankes understood that young
people said nowadays. It was a thousand pities
if you thought, as he did, that Carlyle was one of
the great teachers of mankind. Lily was ashamed
to say that she had not read Carlyle since she was
at school. But in her opinion one liked Mr.
Ramsay all the better for thinking that if his
httle finger ached the whole world must come to
an end. It was not that she minded. For who
could be deceived by him? He asked you quite
open y to flatter him, to admire him, his little
dodges deceived nobody. What she disliked was

after n him WneSS5 ^ bHndneSS ’ she said > looking

“A bit of a hypocrite?” Mr. Bankes sug¬
gested, looking, too, at Mr. Ramsay’s back, for was
e not thinking of his friendship, and of Cam
re using to give him a flower, and of all those
oys and girls, and his own house, full of comfort
Uty since his wife’s death, quiet rather? Of
course, he had his work. ... All the same he
rather wished Lily to agree that Ramsay was, as
he said, “ a bit of a hypocrite ”.

Lily Briscoe went on putting away her brushes,
ookmg up, looking down. Looking up, there

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

he was—Mr. Ramsay—advancing towards them
swinging, careless, oblivious, remote. A bit of
a hypocrite? she repeated. Oh no—the most
sincere of men the truest (here he was), the best-
but, looking down, she thought, he is absorbed
n himsdf, he is tyrannical, he is unjust; and kept
looking down, purposely, for only so could she
keep steady, staying with the Ramsays. Directlv
one looked up and saw them, what she called

part of that VC ^ ^ became

P _ that unreal but penetrating and excitine

universe wh,ch is the world seen through
eyes of love. The sky stuck to them; th! bird

exciting she felt, too, as she saw Mr. Ra ms av

Srja“s ■ 1 r n8> r M r-

rr “ d ; v r bmdin &. ^ ^ wi

1‘ a ? ltt e se P arat e incidents which one
° ne / one ’ became curled and whole like
a wave which bore one up with it and

down with it, there, with a dash on the beach. 006
Mr. Bankes expected her to answer And

Rami;,' tw i sa irf ng criticising Mrs -’

way, high-handed n too, in • her

M? Batfatade itTl'f ^ ^

ber to speak hv h' ntire ty unnecessary for
7 6 Speak b 7 capture. For such it was

THE WINDOW

considering his age, turned sixty, and his clean¬
liness and his impersonality, and the white scien¬
tific coat which seemed to clothe him. For
him to gaze as Lily saw him gazing at Mrs.
Ramsay was a rapture, equivalent, Lily felt, to
the loves of dozens of young men (and perhaps
Mrs. Ramsay had never excited the loves of
dozens of young men). It was love, she thought,
pretending to move her canvas, distilled and
filtered; love that never attempted to clutch its
object; but, like the love which mathematicians
bear their symbols, or poets their phrases, was
meant to be spread over the world and become
part of the human gain. So it was indeed. The
world by all means should have shared it, could
Mr. Bankes have said why that woman pleased
him so; why the sight of her reading a fairy tale
to her boy had upon him precisely the same effect
as the solution of a scientific problem, so that he
rested in contemplation of it, and felt, as he felt
when he had proved something absolute about
the digestive system of plants, that barbarity was
tamed, the reign of chaos subdued.

Such a rapture—for by what other name could
one call it? made Lily Briscoe forget entirely
what she had been about to say. It was nothing
of importance; something about Mrs. Ramsay.

It paled beside this “ rapture ”, this silent stare,

77

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

for which she felt intense gratitude; for nothing
so solaced her, eased her of the perplexity of life
and miraculously raised its burdens, as this sub¬
lime power, this heavenly gift, and one would no
more disturb it, while it lasted, than break up the
shaft of sunlight lying level across the floor.

That people should love like this, that Mr.
Bankes should feel this for Mrs. Ramsay (she
glanced at him musing) was helpful, was exalting.
She wiped one brush after another upon a piece
of old rag, menially, on purpose. She took
shelter from the reverence which covered all
women; she felt herself praised. Let him gaze;
she would steal a look at her picture.

She could have wept. It was bad, it was bad
it was infinitely bad! She could have done it
differently of course; the colour could have been
thinned and faded; the shapes etherealised; that
was how Paunceforte would have seen it/ But
then she did not see it like that. She saw the
colour burning on a framework of steel; the light
of a butterfly’s wing lying upon the arches of a
cathedral. Of all that only a few random marks
scrawled upon the canvas remained. And it
would never be seen; never be hung even, and
there was Mr. Tansley whispering in her ear,
Women can t paint, women can’t write . .

She now remembered what she had been going

Sling
life,
sub-
1 no
the

Mr.

she

«g-

ece

)ok

all

se;

id,

it

en

tat

ut

he

ht

a

cs

it

d

r,

±nn, WIJNJUOW

to say about Mrs. Ramsay. She did not know how
she would have put it; but it would have been
something critical. She had been annoyed the
other night by some highhandedness. Looking
along the leve! of Mr. Bankes’ glance at her, she
thought that no woman could worship another
woman in the way he worshipped; they could
only seek shelter under the shade which Mr
Bankes extended over them both. Looking along
his beam she added to it her different rav
inking that she was unquestionably the loveliest
° people (bowed over her book); the best
perhaps; but also, different too from the perfect
shape which one saw there. But why different
and how different? she asked herself, scraping
her palette of all those mounds of blue and green
which seemed to her like clods with no life in
them now, yet she vowed, she would inspire them
force them to move, flow, do her bidding to¬
morrow. How did she differ? What wa S g the
spirit in her, the essential thing, by which, had

wouidT d l g ove - m the corner ° f a sofa > 7^

■ , d ^ nown from its twisted finger, hers
indisputably? She was like a bird for speed, an
arrow for directness. She was wilful; she was
commanding (of course, Lily reminded herself I
“ th.nk.ng of her relations with women, and
am much younger, an insignificant person, living

79

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

off the Brompton Road). She opened bedroom
windows. She shut doors. (So she tried to start
the tune of Mrs. Ramsay in her head.) Arriving
late at night, with a light tap on one’s bed¬
room door, wrapped in an old fur coat (for the
setting of her beauty was always that—hasty,
but apt), she would enact again whatever it
might be—Charles Tansley losing his umbrella-
Mr. Carmichael snuffling and sniffing; Mr!
Bankes saying, “ the vegetable salts are lost”.
All this she would adroitly shape; even malici¬
ously twist; and, moving over to the window,
in pretence that she must go,—it was dawn, she
could see the sun rising,—half turn back, more
intimately, but still always laughing, insist that
she must, Minta must, they all must marry,
since in the whole world, whatever laurels might
be tossed to her (but Mrs. Ramsay cared not a
fig for her painting), or triumphs won by her
(probably Mrs. Ramsay had had her share of
those), and here she saddened, darkened, and
came back to her chair, there could be no dis¬
puting this: an unmarried woman (she lightly
took her hand for a moment), an unmarried
woman has missed the best of life. The
house seemed full of children sleeping and Mrs.

Ramsay listening; of shaded lights and regular
breathing.

80

THE WINDOW

Oh but, Lily would say, there was her father;
her home; even, had she dared to say it, her
painting. But all this seemed so little, so virginal,
against the other. Yet, as the night wore on,
and white lights parted the curtains, and even
now and then some bird chirped in the garden,
gathering a desperate courage she would urge
her own exemption from the universal law; plead
for it; she liked to be alone; she liked to be
herself; she was not made for that; and so have
to meet a serious stare from eyes of unparalleled
depth, and confront Mrs. Ramsay’s simple
certainty (and she was childlike now) that her dear
Lily, her little Brisk, was a fool. Then, she re¬
membered, she had laid her head on IVIrs. Ramsay’s
lap and laughed and laughed and laughed, laughed
almost hysterically at the thought of Mrs. Ramsay
presiding with immutable calm over destinies
which she completely failed to understand. There
she sat, simple, serious. She had recovered her
sense of her now—this was the glove’s twisted
finger. But into what sanctuary had one pene¬
trated? Lily Briscoe had looked up at last,
and there was Mrs. Ramsay, unwitting entirely
what had caused her laughter, still presiding,
but now with every trace of wilfulness abol¬
ished, and in its stead, something clear as the
space which the clouds at last uncover—the

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

little space of sky which sleeps beside the

moon.

Was it wisdom? Was it knowledge? Was it
once more, the deceptiveness of beauty, so that
all one’s perceptions, half-way to truth, were
tangled in a golden mesh? or did she lock up
within her some secret which certainly Lily
Briscoe believed people must have for the world
to go on at all? Every one could not be as helter
skelter, hand to mouth as she was. But if they
knew, could they tell one what they knew?
Sitting on the floor with her arms round Mrs.
Ramsays knees, close as she could get, smiling
to think that Mrs. Ramsay would never know the
reason of that pressure, she imagined how in the
chambers of the mind and heart of the woman
who was, physically, touching her, were stood,
ike the treasures in the tombs of kings, tablets
bearing sacred inscriptions, which if one could spell
them out would teach one everything, but they
would never be offered openly, never made public.
What art was there, known to love or cunning,
y which one pressed through into those secret
chambers. What device for becoming, like waters
poured mto one jar, inextricably the same, one
with the object one adored? Could the body
ac leve it, or the mind, subtly mingling in the
mtncate passages of ^ brain? ^ ^ ^

THE WINDOW

Could loving, as people called it, make her and
Mrs. Ramsay one? for it was not knowledge but
unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets,
nothing that could be written in any language
known to men, but intimacy itself, which is
knowledge, she had thought, leaning her head on
Mrs. Ramsay’s knee.

Nothing happened. Nothing! Nothing! as
she leant her head against Mrs. Ramsay’s knee.
And yet, she knew knowledge and wisdom were
stored in Mrs. Ramsay’s heart. How then, she
had asked herself, did one know one thing or
another thing about people, sealed as they were?
Only like a bee, drawn by some sweetness or
sharpness in the air intangible to touch or taste,
one haunted the dome-shaped hive, ranged the
wastes of the air over the countries of the world
alone, and then haunted the hives with their
murmurs and their stirrings; the hives which
were people. Mrs. Ramsay rose. Lily rose.
Mrs. Ramsay went. For days there hung about
her, as after a dream some subtle change is felt
in the person one has dreamt of, more vividly
than anything she said, the sound of murmuring
and, as she sat in the wicker arm-chair in the
drawing-room window she wore, to Lily’s eyes,
an august shape; the shape of a dome.

This ray passed level with Mr. Bankes’s ray

83

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

straight to Mrs. Ramsay sitting reading there'
with James at her knee. But now while she still
looked, Mr. Bankes had done. He had put on
his spectacles. He had stepped back. He had
raised his hand. He had slightly narrowed his
clear blue eyes, when Lily, rousing herself, saw
what he was at, and winced like a dog who s'ees a
hand raised to strike it. She would have snatched
her picture off the easel, but she said to herself
One must. She braced herself to stand the awful
trial of someone looking at her picture. One
must, she said, one must. And if it must be seen
Mr. Bankes was less alarming than another. But
that any other eyes should see the residue of her
thirty-three years, the deposit of each day’s living
mixed with something more secret than she had
ever spoken or shown in the course of all those

days was an agony. At the same time it was

immensely exciting.

Nothing could be cooler and quieter. Taking

w>wrt nif \ Mr - Bankes ta PP ed the ca »vas
with the bone handle. What did she wish to

purp,e shape ’. ;i ust

said* St. l , Mr " Ramsa - V ’ fading to James, she
dl i, f k r b,S no one conld

Silt 0 " ?, r“ ^ B " she had made

Jtempt at likeness, she said. For what reason

THE WINDOW

? there
he still
put on
fe had
r ed his
d? saw
sees a
atched
•erself,
awful
One
' seen,

But f
if her
iving, :
i had ^
those
: was

iking
urns
h to
‘just

she
ould
e no
ason

had she introduced them then? he asked. Why
indeed?—except that if there, in that corner, it
was bright, here, in this, she felt the need of
darkness. Simple, obvious, commonplace, as it
was, Mr. Bankes was interested. Mother and
child then—objects of universal veneration, and
in this case the mother was famous for her beauty
might be reduced, he pondered, to a purple
shadow without irreverence.

But the picture was not of them, she said.
Or, not in his sense. There were other senses,
too, in which one might reverence them. By
a shadow here and a light there, for instance.
Her tribute took that form, if, as she vaguely
supposed, a picture must be a tribute. A
mother and child might be reduced to a shadow
without irreverence. A light here required a
shadow there. He considered. He was interested.
He took it scientifically in complete good faith.
The truth was that all his prejudices were on
the other side, he explained. The largest picture
in his drawing-room, which painters had praised,
and valued at a higher price than he had given for
it, was of the cherry trees in blossom on the banks
of the Kennet. He had spent his honeymoon
on the banks of the Kennet, he said. Lily must

come and see that picture, he said. But now_

he turned, with his glasses raised to the scientific

85

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

examination of her canvas. The question being'
one of the relations of masses, of lights and
shadows, which, to be honest, he had never con¬
sidered before,, he would like to have it explained
—what then did she wish to make of it? And he
indicated the scene before them. She looked
She could not show him what she wished to make
of it, could not see it even herself, without a brush
in .her hand. She took up once more her old
painting position with the dim eyes and the absent-
minded manner, subduing all her impressions as
a woman to something much more general; be¬
coming once more under the power of that vision
which she had seen clearly once and must now
grope for among hedges and houses and mothers
and children her picture. It was a question, she
remembered, how to connect this mass on the
right hand with that on the left. She might do it
by bringing the line of the branch across so; or
break the vacancy in the foreground by an object
(James perhaps) so. But the danger was that
A oing that the unity of the whole might
e ro en. She stopped; she did not want to

bore him; she took the canvas lightly off the

easel.

But it had been seen; it had been taken from

nrnf m man had shared with her something
profoundly intimate. And, thanking Mr. Ramsay

THE WINDOW

for it and Mrs. Ramsay for it and the hour and
the place, crediting the world with a power which
she had not suspected, that one could walk away
down that long gallery not alone any more but
arm in arm with somebody—the strangest feeling
in the world, and the most exhilarating—she
nicked the catch of her paint-box to, more firmly
than was necessary, and the nick seemed to
surround in a circle for ever the paint-box, the
lawn, Mr. Bankes, and that wild villain, Cam,
dashing past.

io

For Cam grazed the easel by an inch; she
would not stop for Mr. Bankes and Lily Briscoe;
though Mr. Bankes, who would have liked a
daughter of his own, held out his hand; she would
not stop for her father, whom she grazed also by
an inch; nor for her mother, who called “ Cam!
I want you a moment! ” as she dashed past. She
was off like a bird, bullet, or arrow, impelled
by what desire, shot by whom, at what directed,
who could say? What, what? Mrs. Ramsay
pondered, watching her. It might be a vision—
of a shell, of a wheelbarrow, of a fairy kingdom
on the far side of the hedge; or it might be
the glory of speed; no one knew. But when
Mrs. Ramsay called “ Cam! ” a second time, the

87

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

projectile dropped in mid career, and Cam cam<T

lagging back, pulling a leaf by the way, to her
mother. 1 er

What was she dreaming about, Mrs. Ramsay
wondered seeing her engrossed, as she stood
there, with some thought of her own, so that she
had to repeat the message twice—ask Mildred if
Andrew Miss Doyle, and Mr. Rayley have come
back.—The words seemed to be dropped into a
well, where, if the waters were clear, they were
also so extraordinarily distorting that, even as they
descended, one saw them twisting about to make
Heavem knows what pattern on the floor of the
child s mind. What message would Cam give the
cooki Mrs. Ramsay wondered. And indeed k
was only by waiting patiently, and hearing that
there was an old woman in the kitchen with very
red cheeks, drinking soup out of a basin, that
Mrs. Ramsay at last prompted that parrot-like
instinct which had picked up Mildred’s words
quite accurately and could now produce them if

fmW 1 ^’ m r a ColourIess singsong. Shifting
from foot to foot, Cam repeated the words!

away teaT ^ “ d ^ ^ Ellen t0 dear

bacfthen had come

tholt i 0nly mean ’ Mrs - Ram say

thought, one thing. She must accept him, or she

THE WINDOW

must refuse him. This going off after luncheon
for a walk, even though Andrew was with them—
what could it mean? except that she had decided,
rightly, Mrs. Ramsay thought (and she was very,
very fond of Minta), to accept that good fellow,
who might not be brilliant, but then, thought
Mrs. Ramsay, realising that James was tugging
at her to make her go on reading aloud the
Fisherman and his Wife, she did in her own
heart infinitely prefer boobies to clever men who
wrote dissertations; Charles Tansley for instance.
Anyhow it must have happened, one way or the
other, by now.

But she read, “ Next morning the wife awoke
fiist, and it was just daybreak, and from her bed
she saw the beautiful country lying before her.
Her husband was still stretching himself. . .

But how could Minta say now that she would
not have him? Not if she agreed to spend whole

afternoons trapesing about the country alone_

for Andrew would be off after his crabs—but
possibly Nancy was with them. She tried to recall
the sight of them standing at the hall door after
lunch. . There they stood, looking at the sky,
wondering about the weather, and she had said,
thinking partly to cover their shyness, partly to
encourage them to be off (for her sympathies were
with Paul),

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

There isn t a cloud anywhere within miles ”
at which she could feel little Charles Tansley, who
had followed them out, snigger. But she did it on
purpose. Whether Nancy was there or not, she
could not be certain, looking from one to the oth el-
in her mind’s eye.

She read on: “ Ah, wife,” said the man, “ why
should we be king? I do not want to be King*.”

Well,” said the wife, “ if you won’t be King- I
will; go to the Flounder, for I will be King.” ’

“ Come in or go out, Cam,” she said, knowing
that Cam was attracted only by the word
Flounder and that in a moment she would
fidget and fight with James as usual. Cam shot
off. Mrs. Ramsay went on reading, relieved for
she and James shared the same tastes and were
comfortable together.

And when he came to the sea, it was quite
dark grey, and the water heaved up from below

and smelt putrid. Then he went and stood by it
and said, }

‘ Flounder, flounder, in the sea.

Come, I pray thee, here to me;

For my wife, good Ilsabil,

Wills not as I’d have her will.’

dl what does she want then?’ said th<
Flounder. And where were they now? Mrs
Ramsay wondered, reading and thinking, quite

THE WINDOW

easily, both at the same time; for the story of
the Fisherman and his Wife was like the bass
gently accompanying a tune, which now and then
ran up unexpectedly into the melody. And when
should she be told? If nothing happened, she
would have to speak seriously to Minta. For she
could not go trapesing about all over the country,
even if Nancy were with them (she tried again,
unsuccessfully, to visualise their backs going down
the path, and to count them). She was responsible
to Minta’s parents—the Owl and the Poker. Her
nicknames for them shot into her mind as she
read. The Owl and the Poker—yes, they would
be annoyed if they heard—and they were certain
to hear—that Minta, staying with the Ramsays,
had been seen etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. “ He
wore a wig in the House of Commons and she ably
assisted him at the head of the stairs, ’ ’ she repeated,
fishing them up out of her mind by a phrase which,
coming back from some party, she had made to
amuse her husband. Dear, dear, Mrs. Ramsay
said to herself, how did they produce this in¬
congruous daughter? this tomboy Minta, with a
hole in her stocking? How did she exist in that
portentous atmosphere where the maid was always
removing in a dust-pan the sand that the parrot
had scattered, and conversation was almost en¬
tirely reduced to the exploits—interesting perhaps,

9 1

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

but limited after all—of that bird? Naturally, one
had asked her to lunch, tea, dinner, finally to stay
with them up at Finlay, which had resulted in
some friction with the Owl, her mother, and more
calling, and more conversation, and more sand, !
and really at the end of it, she had told enough lies
about parrots to last her a lifetime (so she had said
to her husband that night, coming back from the
party). However, Minta came. . . . Yes, she
came, Mrs. Ramsay thought, suspecting some
thorn in the tangle of this thought; and dis-
engaging it found it to be this: a woman had once
accused her of robbing her of her daughter’s
affections”; something Mrs. Doyle had said
made her remember that charge again. Wishing
to dominate, wishing to interfere, making people
do what she wished—that was the charge against
her, and she thought it most unjust. How could
she help being “ like that ” to look at? No one
could accuse her of taking pains to impress. She
was often ashamed of her own shabbiness. Nor

was she domineering, nor was she tyrannical. It

was more true about hospitals and drains and the
dairy. About things like that she did feel pas¬
sionately, and would, if she had had the chance,
have liked to take people by the scruff of their
necks and make them see. No hospital on the
whole island. It was a disgrace. Milk delivered

92

THE WINDOW

at your door in London positively brown with dirt.
It should be made illegal. A model dairy and a
hospital up here—those two things she would
have liked to do, herself. But how? With all
these children? When they were older, then

perhaps she would have time; when they were all
at school.

Oh, but she never wanted James to grow a
day older or Cam either. These two she would
have liked to keep for ever just as they were,
demons of wickedness, angels of delight, never
to see them grow up into long-legged monsters.
Nothing made up for the loss. When she read
just now to James, “ and there were numbers of
soldiers with kettle-drums and trumpets ”, and
his eyes darkened, she thought, why should they
grow up, and lose all that? He was the most
gifted, the most sensitive of her children. But all
she thought, were full of promise. Prue, a perfect
ange with the others, and sometimes now, at
mght especially, she took one’s breath away with
her beauty. Andrew-even her husband ad¬
mitted that his gift for mathematics was extra-
ordinary And Nancy and Roger, they were
both wild creatures now, scampering about over
the country all day long. As for Rose, her
mouth was too big, but she had a wonderful S ift
with her hands. If they had charades, Rose

93

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

made the dresses; made everything; liked best
arranging tables, flowers, anything. She did not
like it that Jasper should shoot birds; but it was
only a stage; they all went through stages. Why
she asked, pressing her chin on James’s head
should they grow up so fast? Why should they
go to school? She would have liked always to
have had a baby. She was happiest carrying one
in her arms. Then people might say she was
tyrannical, domineering, masterful, if they chose-
she did not mind. And, touching his hair with
her lips, she thought, he will never be so happy
again, but stopped herself, remembering how Vi
angered her husband that she should say that.
Still, it was true. They were happier now than
they would ever be again. A tenpenny tea seC'
made Cam happy for days. She heard them
stamping and crowing on the floor above her head
the moment they woke. They came bustling
along the passage. Then the door sprang open
an in they came, fresh as roses, staring, wide
awake, as if this coming into the dining-room
after breakfast, which they did every day of their
lives was a positive event to them; and so on, with
one thing after another, all day long, until she
, Cnt say good-night to them, and found

them netted m their cots like birds among cherries
and raspberries still making up stories about some

THE WINDOW

little bit of rubbish—something they had heard,
something they had picked up in the garden.
They had all their little treasures. . . And so she
went down and said to her husband, Why must
they grow up and lose it all? Never will they be
so happy again. And he was angry. Why take
such a gloomy view of life? he said. It is not
sensible. For it was odd; and she believed it to
be true; that with all his gloom and desperation
he was happier, more hopeful on the whole, than
she was. Less exposed to human worries—
perhaps that was it. He had always his work to
fall back on. Not that she herself was “ pessi¬
mistic ”, as he accused her of being. Only she
^thought life—and a little strip of time presented
Itself to her eyes, her fifty years. There it was
before her—life. Life : she thought but she did
not finish her thought. She took a look at life,
for she had a clear sense of it there, something
real, something private, which she shared neither
with her children nor with her husband. A sort
of transaction went on between them, in which
she was on one side, and life was on another, and
she was always trying to get the better of it, as
it was of her; and sometimes they parleyed (when
she sat alone); there were, she remembered,
great reconciliation scenes; but for the most
part, oddly enough, she must admit that she

95

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

felt this thing that she called life terrible^
hostile, and quick to pounce on you if you o-ave
it a chance. There were the eternal problems:
suffering; death; the poor. There was always
a woman dying of cancer even here. And yet
she had said to all these children, You shall go
through with it. To eight people she had said
relentlessly that (and the bill for the greenhouse
would be fifty pounds). For that reason, knowing
what was before them—love and ambition and
being wretched alone in dreary places—she had
often the feeling, Why must they grow up and
lose it all? And then she said to herself, brandish¬
ing her sword at life, nonsense. They will be 5
perfectly happy. And here she was, she re¬
flected, feeling life rather sinister again, making"^
Minta marry Paul Rayley; because whatever
she might feel about her own transaction and
she had had experiences which need not happen
to everyone (she did not name them to her¬
self); she was driven on, too quickly she knew,
almost as if it were an escape for her too, to

say that people must marry; people must have
children.

Was she wrong in this, she asked herself, re-
viewing her conduct for the past week or two, and
wondering if she had indeed put any pressure |

upon Minta, who was only twenty-four, to make

96

THE WINDOW

up her mind. She was uneasy. Had she not
laughed about it? Was she not forgetting again
how strongly she influenced people? Marriage
needed—oh all sorts of qualities (the bill for the
greenhouse would be fifty pounds); one—she need
not name it —that was essential; the thing she
had with her husband. Had they that?

“ Then he put on his trousers and ran away
like a madman,” she read. “ But outside a great
storm was raging and blowing so hard that he
could scarcely keep his feet; houses and trees
toppled over, the mountains trembled, rocks
rolled into the sea, the sky was pitch black, and it
thundered and lightened, and the sea came in
^with black waves as high as church towers and
mountains, and all with white foam at the
top.”

She turned the page; there were only a few
lines more, so that she would finish the story,
though it was past bed-time. It was getting
late. The light in the garden told her that; and
the whitening of the flowers and something
grey in the leaves conspired together to rouse
in her a feeling of anxiety. What it was about
she could not think at first. Then she remem-
bered; Paul and Minta and Andrew had not
come back. She summoned before her again
the little group on the terrace in front of the hall

G 97

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

door, standing looking up into the sky. Andrei
had his net and basket. That meant he was goini
to catch crabs and things. That meant he woul<
climb out on to a rock; he would be cut off. 0:
coming back single file on one of those’ littl<
paths above the cliff one of them might slip. H(

would roll and then crash. It was growing quite
dark. ^

But she did not let her voice change in the
least as she finished the story, and added, shutting
the book, and speaking the last words as if she
had made them up herself, looking into James’s

eyes: “ And there they are living still at this very
time.” 1

And that s the end,” she said, and she saw in
his eyes, as the interest of the story died away in:
them, something else take its place; something
wondering, pale, like the reflection of a light,!
which at once made him gaze and marvel. Turn¬
ing, she looked across the bay, and there, sure:
enough, coming regularly across the waves first
two quick strokes and then one long steady stroke,
was the light of the Lighthouse. It had been lit !

In a moment he would ask her, “Are we
going to the Lighthouse? ” And she would have
to say, No: not to-morrow; your father says:
not.” Happily, Mildred came in to fetch them,
and the bustle distracted them. But he kept
98 *

THE WINDOW

looking back over his shoulder as Mildred carried
him out, and she was certain that he was thinking,
we are not going to the Lighthouse to-morrow;
and she thought, he will remember that all his
life.

11

No, she thought, putting together some of the
pictures he had cut out—a refrigerator, a mowing
machine, a gentleman in evening dress—children
never forget. For this reason, it was so important
what one said, and what one did, and it was a
relief when they went to bed. For now she need
not think about anybody. She could be herself,

_ by herself. And that was what now she often felt
the need of—to think; well not even to think.
To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the
doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated;
and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to
being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness,
something invisible to others. Although she con¬
tinued to knit, and sat upright, it was thus that
she felt herself; and this self having shed its
attachments was free for the strangest adventures.
When life sank down for a moment, the range of
experience seemed limitless. And to everybody
there was always this sense of unlimited resources,
she supposed; one after another, she, Lily,

99

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Augustus Carmichael, must feel, our apparitions,
the things you know us by, are simply childish.
Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is
unfathomably deep ; but now and again we rise
to the surface and that is what you see us by.
Her horizon seemed to her limitless. There
were all the places she had not seen; the Indian
plains; she felt herself pushing aside the thick
leather curtain of a church in Rome. This core of
darkness could go anywhere, for no one saw it.
They could not stop it, she thought, exulting.
There was freedom, there was peace, there was,
most welcome of all, a summoning together, a ,1
resting on a platform of stability. Not as oneself !
did one find rest ever, in her experience (she accom¬
plished here something dexterous with her needles),
but as a wedge of darkness. Losing personality, ;
one lost the fret, the hurry, the stir; and there
rose to her lips always some exclamation of
triumph over life when things came together in
this peace, this rest, this eternity; and pausing
there she looked out to meet that stroke of the
Lighthouse, the long steady stroke, the last of the
three, which was her stroke, for watching them in i
this mood always at this hour one could not help
attaching oneself to one thing especially of the
things one saw; and this thing, the long steady
stroke, was her stroke. Often she found herself
ioo

THE WINDOW

sitting and looking, sitting and looking, with her
work in her hands until she became the thing she
looked at—that light for example. And it would
lift up on it some little phrase or other which had
been lying in her mind like that—“ Children don’t
forget, children don’t forget ’’—which she would
repeat and begin adding to it, It will end, It will
end, she said. It will come, it will come, when
suddenly she added, We are in the hands of the
Lord.

But instantly she was annoyed with herself for
saying that. Who had said it ? not she ; she had
been trapped into saying something she did not
mean. She looked up over her knitting and met
. the third stroke and it seemed to her like her own
eyes meeting her own eyes, searching as she alone
could search into her mind and her heart, purifying
out of existence that lie, any lie. She praised
herself in praising the light, without vanity, for
she was stern, she was searching, she was beautiful
like that light. It was odd, she thought, how if
one was alone, one leant to things, inanimate
things; trees, streams, flowers; felt they ex- .
pressed one; felt they became one; felt they
knew one, in a sense were one; felt an irrational ,
tenderness thus (she looked at that long steady \
ight) as for oneself. There rose, and she looked ;
and looked with her needles suspended, there

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

curled up off the floor of the mind, rose from the
lake of one’s being, a mist, a bride to meet her
lover.

What brought her to say that: “We are in the
hands of the Lord? ” she wondered. The insin¬
cerity slipping in among the truths roused her,
annoyed her. She returned to her knitting again.
How could any Lord have made this world? she
asked. With her mind she had always seized
the fact that there is no reason, order, justice:
but suffering, death, the poor. There was no
treachery too base for the world to commit; she
knew that. No happiness lasted; she knew that.

She knitted with firm composure, slightly pursing |
her lips and, without being aware of it, so stiffened ;
and composed the lines of her face in a habit of ^
sternness that when her husband passed, though
he was chuckling at the thought that Hume, the
philosopher, grown enormously fat, had stuck in a
bog, he could not help noting, as he passed, the
sternness at the heart of her beauty. It saddened
him, and her remoteness pained him, and he felt,
as he passed, that he could not protect her, and,
when he reached the hedge, he was sad. He
could do nothing to help her. He must stand by
and watch her. Indeed, the infernal truth was,
he made things worse for her. He was irritable—
he was touchy. He had lost his temper over the
102

THE WINDOW

Lighthouse. He looked into the hedge, into its
intricacy, its darkness.

Always, Mrs. Ramsay felt, one helped oneself
out of solitude reluctantly by laying hold of some
little odd or end, some sound, some sight. She
listened, but it was all very still; cricket was over;
the children were in their baths; there was only
the sound of the sea. She stopped knitting; she
held the long reddish-brown stocking dangling
in her hands a moment. She saw the light
again. With some irony in her interrogation,
for when one woke at all, one’s relations changed,
she looked at the steady light, the pitiless,
the remorseless, which was so much her, yet
so little her, which had her at its beck and
call (she woke in the night and saw it bent
across their bed, stroking the floor), but for
all that she thought, watching it with fascination,
hypnotised, as if it were stroking with its silver
fingers some sealed vessel in her brain whose
bursting would flood her with delight, she had
known happiness, exquisite happiness, intense
happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little
more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue
went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of
pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke
upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her
eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the

103

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough I It

is enough 1 &

He turned and saw her. Ah! She was lovely
lovelier now than ever he thought. But he could
not speak to her. He could not interrupt her
He wanted urgently to speak to her now that
James was gone and she was alone at last. But he
resolved, no; he would not interrupt her. She
was aloof from him now in her beauty, in her
sadness. He would let her be, and he passed her
without a word, though it hurt him that she should
look so distant, and he could not reach her, he
could do nothing to help her. And again he
would have passed her without a word had she
not, at that very moment, given him of her own
free will what she knew he would never ask, and ~
called to him and taken the green shawl off the

picture frame, and gone to him. For he wished
sne knew, to protect her. 5

She folded the green shawl about her shoulders.

said h° ■ ^ am ' HiS beaUty was 80 £ reat >
said, beginning to speak of Kennedy the gardener

l°iT’L WaS S ° aWfully handsome, that she
couHn t dismiss him. There was a ladder against

t" Se ’ ^ HttIe bmpS ° f P ut ty stuck
about, for they were beginning to mend the green-

THE WINDOW

house roof. Yes, but as she strolled along with
her husband, she felt that that particular source of
worry had been placed. She had it on the tip of
her tongue to say, as they strolled, “It’ll cost fifty
pounds”, but instead, for her heart failed her
about money, she talked about Jasper shooting
birds, and he said, at once, soothing her instantly,
that it was natural in a boy, and he trusted he
would find better ways of amusing himself before
long. Her husband was so sensible, so just. And
so she said, Yes; all children go through stages,”
and began considering the dahlias in the big bed,

I ' and wondering what about next year’s flowers, and
£ had he heard the children’s nickname for Charles
Tjmsley, she asked. The atheist, they called him,
the little atheist. He s not a polished specimen,”

- said Mr. Ramsay. “Far from it,” said Mrs.
Ramsay.

She supposed it was all right leaving him to
his own devices, Mrs. Ramsay said, wondering
whether it was any use sending down bulbs; did
they plant them? “ Oh, he has his dissertation to
write, said Mr. Ramsay. She knew all about
that, said Mrs. Ramsay. He talked of nothing
else. It was about the influence of somebody upon
something. “ Well, it’s all he has to count on,”
said Mr. Ramsay. “ Pray Heaven he won’t fall
in love with Prue,” said Mrs. Ramsay. He’d

105

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

disinherit her if she married him, said Mr.
Ramsay. He did not look at the flowers, which his
wife was considering, but at a spot about a foot or
so above them. There was no harm in him, he
added, and was just about to say that anyhow he
was the only young man in England who admired

his-when he choked it back. He would not

bother her again about his books. These flowers
seemed creditable, Mr. Ramsay said, lowering his
gaze and noticing something red, something
brown. Yes, but then these she had put in with
her own hands, said Mrs. Ramsay. The question
was, what happened if she sent bulbs down; did
Kennedy plant them? It was his incurable lazi¬
ness; she added, moving on. If she stood over
him all day long with a spade in her hand, he did
sometimes do a stroke of work. So they strolled
along, towards the red-hot pokers. “ You’re
teaching your daughters to exaggerate,” said Mr.
Ramsay, reproving her. Her Aunt Camilla was
far worse than she was, Mrs. Ramsay remarked.

“ Nobody ever held up your Aunt Camilla as a
model of virtue that I’m aware of,” said Mr.
Ramsay. She was the most beautiful woman I
ever saw,” said Mrs. Ramsay. “ Somebody else
was that,” said Mr. Ramsay. Prue was going to
be far more beautiful than she was, said Mrs.

Ramsay. He saw no trace of it, said Mr. Ramsay.
106 ■

THE WINDOW

“ Well, then, look to-night,” said Mrs. Ramsay.
They paused. He wished Andrew could be
induced to work harder. He would lose every
chance of a scholarship if he didn’t. “ Oh scholar¬
ships! ” she said. Mr. Ramsay thought her
foolish for saying that, about a serious thing, like
a scholarship. He should be very proud of
Andrew if he got a scholarship, he said. She
would be just as proud of him if he didn’t, she
answered. They disagreed always about this,
but it did not matter. She liked him to believe
in scholarships, and he liked her to be proud of
Andrew whatever he did. Suddenly she remem¬
bered those little paths on the edge of the cliffs.

Wasn’t it late? she asked. They hadn’t come
home yet. He flicked his watch carelessly open.
But it was only just past seven. He held his
watch open for a moment, deciding that he would
tell her what he had felt on the terrace. To begin
with, it was not reasonable to be so nervous.
Andrew could look after himself. Then, he
wanted to tell her that when he was walking on
the terrace just now—here he became uncomfort-
able, as if he were breaking into that solitude, that
aloofness, that remoteness of hers. . . . But she
pressed him. What had he wanted to tell her, she
asked, thinking it was about going to the Light¬
house; and that he was sorry he had said “ Damn

107

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

you But no. He did not like to see her look so
sad, he said. Only wool gathering, she protested,
flushing a little. They both felt uncomfortable,
as if they did not know whether to go on or go
back. She had been reading fairy tales to James,
she said. No, they could not share that; they
could not say that.

They had reached the gap between the two
clumps of red-hot pokers, and there was the
Lighthouse again, but she would not let herself
look at it. Had she known that he was looking
at her, she thought, she would not have let herself
sit there, thinking. She disliked anything that
reminded her that she had been seen sitting
thinking. So she looked over her shoulder, at the
town. The lights were rippling and running as
if they were drops of silver water held firm in a
wind. And all the poverty, all the suffering had
turned to that, Mrs. Ramsay thought. The lights
of the town and of the harbour and of the boats
seemed like a phantom net floating there to mark
something which had sunk. Well, if he could not
share her thoughts, Mr. Ramsay said to himself,
he would be off, then, on his own. He wanted to
go on thinking, telling himself the story how
Hume was stuck in a bog; he wanted to laugh.
But first it was nonsense to be anxious about
Andrew. When he was Andrew’s age he used to
108

THE WINDOW

walk about the country all day long, with nothing
but a biscuit in his pocket and nobody bothered
about him, or thought that he had fallen over a
cliff. He said aloud he thought he would be off
for a day’s walk if the weather held. He had
had about enough of Bankes and of Carmichael.
He would like a little solitude. Yes, she said. It
annoyed him that she did not protest. She knew
that he would never do it. He was too old now to
walk all day long with a biscuit in his pocket.
She worried about the boys, but not about him.
Years ago, before he had married, he thought,
looking across the bay, as they stood between the
clumps of red-hot pokers, he had walked all day.
He had made a meal off bread and cheese in a
public house. He had worked ten hours at a
stretch; an old woman just popped her head in
now and again and saw to the fire. That was the
country he liked best, over there; those sandhills
dwindling away into darkness. One could walk
all day without meeting a soul. There was not a
house scarcely, not a single village for miles on
end. One could worry things out alone. There
were little sandy beaches where no one had been
since the beginning of time. The seals sat up and
looked at you. It sometimes seemed to him that
in a little house out there, alone—he broke off,
sighing. He had no right. The father of eight

109

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

children—he reminded himself. And he would
have been a beast and a cur to wish a single thing
altered. Andrew would be a better man than
he had been. Prue would be a beauty, her mother

said. They would stem the flood a bit. That was

a good bit of work on the whole—his eight
children. They showed he did not damn the poor
little universe entirely, for on an evening like this
he thought, looking at the land dwindling away’
the little island seemed pathetically small, half
swallowed up in the sea.

Poor little place,” he murmured with a sigh.

. She heard He said the most melancholy
things, but she noticed that directly he had said
them he always seemed more cheerful than usual.
All this phrase-making was a game, she thought,
for if she had said half what he said, she would
have blown her brains out by now.

. I<: anno 7 e d her, this phrase-making, and she
said to him, in a matter-of-fact way, that it was
a perfectly lovely evening. And what was he
groaning, about, she asked, half laughing, half
complaining, for she guessed what he was thinking
—he would have written better books if he had
not married.

He was not complaining, he said. She knew
that he did not complain. She knew that he had

nothing whatever to complain of. And he seized

no

THE WINDOW

her hand and raised it to his lips and kissed it
with an intensity that brought the tears to her
eyes, and quickly he dropped it.

They turned away from the view and began to
walk up the path where the silver-green spear-like
plants grew, arm in arm. His arm was almost like
a young man’s arm, Mrs. Ramsay thought, thin
and hard, and she thought with delight how strong
he still was, though he was over sixty, and how
untamed and optimistic, and how strange it was
that being convinced, as he was, of all sorts of
horrors, seemed not to depress him, but to cheer
him. Was it not odd, she reflected? Indeed he
seemed to her sometimes made differently from
other people, born blind, deaf, and dumb, to the
ordinary things, but to the extraordinary things,
with an eye like an eagle’s. His understanding
often astonished her. But did he notice the
flowers? No. Did he notice the view? No. Did
he even notice his own daughter’s beauty, or
whether there was pudding on his plate or roast
beef? He would sit at table with them like a
person in a dream. And his habit of talking aloud,
or saying poetry aloud, was growing on him, she
was afraid; for sometimes it was awkward_

Best and brightest, come away]

p°° r Miss Giddings, when he shouted that at her.

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

almost jumped out of her skin. But then,
Mrs. Ramsay, though instantly taking his side
against all the silly Giddingses in the world, then,
she thought, intimating by a little pressure on his
arm that he walked up hill too fast for her, and
she must stop for a moment to see whether those
were fresh mole-hills on the bank, then, she
thought, stooping down to look, a great mind
like his must be different in every way from ours.
All the great men she had ever known, she
thought, deciding that a rabbit must have got in,
were like that, and it was good for young men
(though the atmosphere of lecture-rooms was
stuffy and depressing to her beyond endurance
almost) simply to hear him, simply to look at him.
But without shooting rabbits, how was one to
keep them down? she wondered. It might be
a rabbit; it might be a mole. Some creature
anyhow was ruining her Evening Primroses.
And looking up, she saw above the thin trees the
first pulse of the full-throbbing star, and wanted
to make her husband look at it; for the sight gave
her such keen pleasure. But she stopped herself.
He never looked at things. If he did, all he
would say would be, Poor little world, with one of
his sighs.

At that moment, he said, “ Very fine,” to
please her, and pretended to admire the flowers.

112

THE WINDOW

But she knew quite well that he did not admire
them, or even realise that they were there. It
was only to please her. . . Ah, but was that not
Lily Briscoe strolling along with William Bankes?
She focussed her short-sighted eyes upon the
backs of a retreating couple. Yes, indeed it was.
Did that not mean that they would marry? Yes,
it must! What an admirable idea! They must
marry!

13

He had been to Amsterdam, Mr. Bankes was
saying as he strolled across the lawn with Lily
Briscoe. He had seen the Rembrandts. He
_Jiad been to Madrid. Unfortunately, it was
Good Friday and the Prado was shut. He had
been to Rome. Had Miss Briscoe never been

to Rome? Oh, she should- It would be

a wonderful experience for her—the Sistine
Chapel; Michael Angelo; and Padua, with its
Giottos. His wife had been in bad health for
many years, so that their sight-seeing had been
on a modest scale.

She had been to Brussels; she had been to
Pans, but only for a flying visit to see an aunt who
was ill. She had been to Dresden; there were
masses of pictures she had not seen; however,
Lily Briscoe reflected, perhaps it was better not

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

to see pictures: they only made one hopelessly
discontented with one’s own work. Mr. Bankes
thought one could carry that point of view too far.
We can’t all be Titians and we can’t all be
Darwins, he said; at the same time he doubted
whether you could have your Darwin and your
Titian if it weren’t for humble people like our¬
selves. Lily would have liked to pay him a
compliment; you’re not humble, Mr. Bankes,
she would have liked to have said. But he did
not want compliments (most men do, she thought),
and she was a little ashamed of her impulse and
said nothing while he remarked that perhaps
what he was saying did not apply to pictures.
Anyhow, said Lily, tossing off her little insin¬
cerity, she would always go on painting, because
it interested her. Yes, said Mr. Bankes, he was
sure she would, and as they reached the end of
the lawn he was asking her whether she had
difficulty in finding subjects in London when
they turned and saw the Ramsays. So that is
marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman
looking at a girl throwing a ball. That is what
Mrs. Ramsay tried to tell me the other night,
she thought. For she was wearing a green
shawl, and they were standing close together
watching Prue and Jasper throwing catches. And
suddenly the meaning which, for no reason at all,

114

THE WINDOW

as perhaps they are stepping out of the Tube or
ringing a doorbell, descends on people, making
them symbolical, making them representative, came
upon them, and made them in the dusk standing,
looking, the symbols of marriage, husband and
wife. Then, after an instant, the symbolical
outline which transcended the real figures sank
down again, and they became, as they met them,
Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay watching the children
throwing catches. But still for a moment,
though Mrs. Ramsay greeted them with her
usual smile (oh, she’s thinking we’re going to get
married, Lily thought) and said, “ I have triumphed
to-night,” meaning that for once Mr. Bankes
had agreed to dine with them and not run off
to his own lodging where his man cooked vege¬
tables properly ; still, for one moment, there was
a sense of things having been blown apart, of
space, of irresponsibility as the ball soared high,
and they followed it and lost it and saw the one
star and the draped branches. In the failing
light they all looked sharp-edged and ethereal
and divided by great distances. Then, darting
backwards over the vast space (for it seemed as
if solidity had vanished altogether), Prue ran
full tilt into them and caught the ball brilliantly
^igh up in her left hand, and her mother said,
aven t they come back yet? ” whereupon

IJ S

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

the spell was broken. Mr. Ramsay felt free
now to laugh out loud at Hume, who had stuck
in a bog and an old woman rescued him on
condition he said the Lord’s Prayer, and chuckling
to himself he strolled off to his study. Mrs.
Ramsay, bringing Prue back into the alliance of
family life again, from which she had escaped,
throwing catches, asked,

“ Did Nancy go with them? ”

14

i

(Certainly, Nancy had gone with them, since A
Minta Doyle had asked it with her dumb look,
holding out her hand, as Nancy made off, after '
lunch, to her attic, to escape the horror of family >
life. She supposed she must go then. She did I
not want to go. She did not want to be drawn fe
into it all. For as they walked along the road to ||

the cliff Minta kept on taking her hand. Then h

she would let it go. Then she would take it j
again. What was it she wanted? Nancy asked
herself. There was something, of course, that
people wanted; for when Minta took her hand
and held it, Nancy, reluctantly, saw the whole
world spread out beneath her, as if it were Con- '
stantinople seen through a mist, and then, however !

heavy-eyed one might be, one must needs ask, “Is
116

the window

that Santa Sofia? ” “ Is that the Golden Horn? ”
So Nancy asked, when Minta took her hand,
“ What is it that she wants? Is it that? ” And
what was that? Here and there emerged from
the mist (as Nancy looked down upon life spread
beneath her) a pinnacle, a dome; prominent
things, without names. But when Minta dropped
her hand, as she did when they ran down the hill¬
side, all that, the dome, the pinnacle, whatever
it was that had protruded through the mist, sank
down into it and disappeared.

Minta, Andrew observed, was rather a good
walker. She wore more sensible clothes than most
women She wore very short skirts and black
knickerbockers. She would jump straight into
a stream and flounder across. He liked her rash¬
ness, but he saw that it would not do—she would
ill herself in some idiotic way one of these days.
She seemed to be afraid of nothing—except bulls.
At the mere sight of a bull in a field she would
t row up her arms and fly screaming, which was
the very thing to enrage a bull of course. But she
did not mind owning up to it in the least; one
must admit that. She knew she was an awful
coward about bulls, she said. She thought she
must have been tossed in her perambulator when
s e was a baby. She didn’t seem to mind what
s e said or did. Suddenly now she pitched down

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TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

on the edge of the cliff and began to sing some

song about

Damn your eyes, damn your eyes.

They all had to join in and sing the chorus, and
shout out together:

Damn your eyes, damn your eyes,

but it would be fatal to let the tide come in and
cover up all the good hunting-grounds before
they got on to the beach.

“ Fata1 ’” P au { a S ree d, springing up, an d as
they wen slithering down, he kept quoting the
guide-book about “these islands being justly
celebrated for their park-like prospects Jd ,hl
extent and variety of their marine curiosities
But it would not do altogether, this shouting and'"'
damning your eyes, Andrew felt, picking hi? way
down the cliff, tins clapping him on the back
and calling him old fellow ” and all that- i
would not altogether do. It was the worsi of

taking women on walks. Once on the beach they

separated, he going out on to the Pope’s Nose
taking his shoes off, and rolling his socks in them
and letting that couple look after themselves-
Nancy waded out to her own rocks and searched
her own pools and let that couple look tfer
themselves She crouched low down and touched
he smooth rubber-like sea anemones, who were

THE WINDOW

stuck like lumps of jelly to the side of the rock.
Brooding, she changed the pool into the sea, and
made the minnows into sharks and whales, and cast
vast clouds over this tiny world by holding her
hand against the sun, and so brought darkness and
desolation, like God himself, to millions of ignorant
and innocent creatures, and then took her hand
away suddenly and let the sun stream down. Out on
the pale criss-crossed sand, high-stepping, fringed,
gauntletted, stalked some fantastic leviathan (she
was still enlarging the pool), and slipped into
the vast fissures of the mountain side. And then,
letting her eyes slide imperceptibly above the pool
and rest on that wavering line of sea and sky, on
the tree trunks which the smoke of steamers made
waver upon the horizon, she became with all that
dower sweeping savagely in and inevitably with¬
drawing, hypnotised, and the two senses of that
vastness and this tininess (the pool had diminished
again) flowering within it made her feel that she
was bound hand and foot and unable to move by
the intensity of feelings which reduced her own
body, her own life, and the lives of all the people
m the world, for ever, to nothingness. So listen¬
ing to the waves, crouched over the pool, she
brooded.

And Andrew shouted that the sea was coming
in, so she leapt splashing through the shallow

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TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

waves on to the shore and ran up the beach ’■
and was carried by her own impetuosity and her
desire for rapid movement right behind a rock
and there oh heavens! in each others arms were
Paul and Minta! kissing probably. She was
outraged, indignant. She and Andrew put on
their shoes and stockings in dead silence without
saying a thing about it. Indeed they were rather
sharp with each other. She might have called him
when she saw the crayfish or whatever it was
Andrew grumbled. However, they both felt, it’s
not our fault. They had not wanted this horrid
nuisance to happen. All the same it irritated
Andrew that Nancy should be a woman, and Nancy
that Andrew should be a man and they tied their
shoes very neatly and drew the bows rather tiaht. -
It was not until they had climbed right up on to
the top of the cliff again that Minta cried out that

she had lost her grandmother’s brooch_her

grandmother’s brooch, the sole ornament she
possessed—a weeping willow, it was (they must
remember it) set in pearls. They must have seen '
it, she said, with the tears running down her
cheeks, the brooch which her grandmother had
fastened her cap with till the last day of her life.

Now she had lost it. She would rather have lost

anything than that! She would go back and look
for it. They all went back, They poked and

THE WINDOW

peered and looked. They kept their heads very
low, and said things shortly and gruffly. Paul
Rayley searched like a madman all about the rock
where they had been sitting. All this pother
about a brooch really didn’t do at all, Andrew
thought, as Paul told him to make a “ thorough
search between this point and that ”. The tide was
coming in fast. The sea would cover the place
where they had sat in a minute. There was not a
ghost of a chance of their finding it now. “ We
shah be cut off! ” Minta shrieked, suddenly
terrified. As if there were any danger of that!
It was the same as the bulls all over again—she had
no control over her emotions, Andrew thought.
Women hadn’t. The wretched Paul had to
pacify her. The men (Andrew and Paul at once
became manly, and different from usual) took
counsel briefly and decided that they would plant
Rayley’s stick where they had sat and come back
at low tide again. There was nothing more that
could be done now. If the brooch was there, it
would still be there in the morning, they assured
her, but Minta still sobbed, all the way up to the
top of the cliff. It was her grandmother’s brooch;
she would rather have lost anything but that, and
yet Nancy felt, though it might be true that
she minded losing her brooch, she wasn’t crying
only for that, She was crying for something else.

121

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

We might all sit down and cry, she felt. But she
did not know what for.

They drew ahead together, Paul and Minta,
and he comforted her, and said how famous he was
for finding things. Once when he was a little boy
he had found a gold watch. He would get up at
daybreak and he was positive he would find it. It
seemed to him that it would be almost dark, and
he would be alone on the beach, and somehow it
would be rather dangerous. He began telling her,
however, that he would certainly find it, and she
said that she would not hear of his getting up at
dawn: it was lost: she knew that: she had had t
a presentiment when she put it on that afternoon. |
And secretly he resolved that he would not tell her, Ij
but he would slip out of the house at dawn when
they were all asleep and if he could not find it he
would go to Edinburgh and buy her another, just
like it but more beautiful. He would prove what
he could do. And as they came out on the hill
and saw the lights of the town beneath them, the
lights coming out suddenly one by one seemed
like things that were going to happen to him—his
marriage, his children, his house; and again he
thought, as they came out on to the high road, :
which was shaded with high bushes, how they
would retreat into solitude together, and walk on
and on, he always leading her, and she pressing
122

THE WINDOW

close to his side (as she did now). As they turned
by the cross roads he thought what an appalling
experience he had been through, and he must tell
some one—Mrs. Ramsay of course, for it took his
breath away to think what he had been and done.
It had been far and away the worst moment of
his life when he asked Minta to marry him. He
would go straight to Mrs. Ramsay, because he
felt somehow that she was the person who had
made him do it. She had made him think he
could do any thing. Nobody else took him
seriously. But she made him believe that he
could do whatever he wanted. He had felt her
eyes on him all day to-day, following him about
(though she never said a word) as if she were
saying, “ Yes, you can do it. I believe in you.
I expect it of you.” She had made him feel all
that, and directly they got back (he looked for the
lights of the house above the bay) he would go to
her and say, “ I’ve done it, Mrs. Ramsay; thanks
to you ”. And so turning into the lane that led to
the house he could see lights moving about in the
upper windows. They must be awfully late then.
People were getting ready for dinner. The house
was all lit up, and the lights after the darkness
made his eyes feel full, and he said to himself,
childishly, as he walked up the drive, Lights,
lights, lights, and repeated in a dazed way, Lights,

123

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

lights, lights, as they came into the house, staring
about him with his face quite stiff. But, good
heavens, he said to himself, putting his hand to
his tie, I must not make a fool of myself.)

1 5

Yes, ’ said Prue, in her considering way
answering her mother’s question, “ I think Nancy
did go with them.”

16

Well then, Nancy had gone with them, Mrs.
Ramsay supposed, wondering, as she put down a
rush, took up a comb, and said “ Come in ” to
a tap at the door (Jasper and Rose came in),
w ether the fact that Nancy was with them made
it less likely or more likely that anything would
happen; It made it less likely, somehow, Mrs.
Ramsay felt, very irrationally, except that after all
olocaust on such a scale was not probable. They
could not all be drowned. And again she felt
alone in the presence of her old antagonist, life.

Jasper and Rose said that Mildred wanted to
know whether she should wait dinner.

“ Not for the Queen of England,” said Mrs.

Kamsay emphatically.

124

THE WINDOW

“ Not for the Empress of Mexico,” she added,
laughing at Jasper; for he shared his mother’s
vice: he, too, exaggerated.

And if Rose liked, she said, while Jasper took
the message, she might choose which jewels she
was to wear. When there are fifteen people
sitting down to dinner, one cannot keep things
waiting for ever. She was now beginning to feel
annoyed with them for being so late; it was in¬
considerate of them, and it annoyed her on top of
her anxiety about them, that they should choose
this very night to be out late, when, in fact, she
wished the dinner to be particularly nice, since
William Bankes had at last consented to dine with
them; and they were having Mildred’s master¬
piece Boeuf en Daube. Everything depended
upon things being served up the precise moment
they were ready. The beef, the bayleaf, and the
wine—all must be done to a turn. To keep it
waiting was out of the question. Yet of course
to-night, of all nights, out they went, and they
came in late, and things had to be sent out, things

had to be kept hot; the Boeuf en Daube would be
entirely spoilt.

Jasper offered her an opal necklace; Rose a
gold necklace. Which looked best against her
black dress? Which did indeed? said Mrs.
Ramsay absent-mindedly, looking at her neck and

125

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

shoulders (but avoiding her face), in the glass
And then, while the children rummaged among
her things, she looked out of the window at a sight
which always amused her—the rooks trying to
decide which tree to settle on. Every time, they
seemed to change their minds and rose up into
the air again, because, she thought, the old rook
the father rook, old Joseph was her name for him'
was a bird of a very trying and difficult disposition!
He was a disreputable old bird, with half his wing
feathers missing. He was like some seedy old
gentleman in a top hat she had seen playing the
horn in front of a public house.

“Look!” she said, laughing. They were
actually fighting. Joseph and Mary were fighting.
Anyhow they all went up again, and the air was
shoved aside by their black wings and cut into
exquisite scimitar shapes. The movement of the
wings beating out, out, out—she could never
describe it accurately enough to please herself—
was one of the loveliest of all to her. Look at
that,. she said to Rose, hoping that Rose would
see it more clearly than she could. For one’s
children so often gave one’s own perceptions a
little thrust forwards.

But which was it to be? They had all the
trays of her jewel-case open. The gold necklace,
which was Italian, or the opal necklace, which

. the window

Uncle James had brought her from India; or
should she wear her amethysts?

Choose, dearests, choose,” she said, hoping
that they would make haste.

But she let them take their time to choose:
she let Rose, particularly, take up this and then
that, and hold her jewels against the black dress,
for this little ceremony of choosing jewels, which
was gone through every night, was what Rose
iked best, she knew. She had some hidden
reason of her own for attaching great importance
to this choosing what her mother was to wear.
What was the reason, Mrs. Ramsay wondered,
standing still to let her clasp the necklace she
a c osen, divining, through her own past, some
eep, some buried, some quite speechless feeling
that °„e Had for one’s mother at Rose’s age

An .h f ' f ° r ° neSeIf ’ Mrs - Ram say

whaf ’ Jt m ' u C ° nC Sad ' Was so Adequate,

at one could give in return; and what Rose

she 7T 1 ? Ulte ° Ut ° f P ro P ortion t0 anything
she actually was. And Rose would grow up

dei R fTr W ° Uld S / ffCr ’ ShC SU PP° sed > with ^ese

deep feehngs and she said she was ready now,
and they would go down, and Jasper, because he

R 6 g ^ nt eman ’ shouId give her his arm, and
, S ® Was th e iady, should carry her hand¬

kerchief (she gave her the handkerchief), and

127

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

what else? oh, yes, it might be cold: a shawl.
Choose me a shawl, she said, for that would please
Rose, who was bound to suffer so. “ There ”
she said, stopping by the window on the landing,
“there they are again.” Joseph had settled on
another tree-top. “ Don’t you think they mind,”
she said to Jasper, “ having their wings broken? 5 ”
Why did he want to shoot poor old Joseph and
Mary? He shuffled a little on the stairs, and
felt rebuked, but not seriously, for she did not
understand the fun of shooting birds; that they
did not feel; and being his mother she lived away
in another division of the world, but he rather
liked her stories about Mary and Joseph. She
made him laugh. But how did she know that
those were Mary and Joseph? Did she think
the same birds came to the same trees every night?
he asked. But here, suddenly, like all grown-up
people, she ceased to pay him the least attention.
She was listening to a clatter in the hall.

Theyve come back!” she exclaimed, and
at once she felt much more annoyed with them
than relieved. Then she wondered, had it hap¬
pened? She would go down and they would
tell her—but no. They could not tell her any¬
thing, with all these people about. So she must
go down and begin dinner and wait. And, like
some queen who, finding her people gathered in

THE WINDOW

the hall, looks down upon them, and descends
among them, and acknowledges their tributes
silently, and accepts their devotion and their
prostration before her (Paul did not move a
muscle but looked straight before him as she
passed), she went down, and crossed the hall and
bowed her head very slightly, as if she accepted
what they could not say: their tribute to her
beauty.

But she stopped. There was a smell of
burning. Could they have let the Boeuf en Daube
overboil, she wondered? pray heaven not! when
the great clangour of the gong announced
solemnly, authoritatively, that all those scattered
about, in attics, in bedrooms, on little perches of
their own, reading, writing, putting the last
smooth to their hair, or fastening dresses, must
leave all that, and the little odds and ends on their
washing-tables and dressing-tables, and the novels
on the bed-tables, and the diaries which were so
private, and assemble in the dining-room for
dinner.

n

But what have I done with my life? thought
Mrs. Ramsay, taking her place at the head of the
table, and looking at all the plates making white
circles on it. “ William, sit by me,” she said,
i 129

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

“ Lily,” she said, wearily, “ over there.” They
had that—Paul Rayley and Minta Doyle—she,
only this—an infinitely long table and plates and
knives. At the far end, was her husband, sitting
down, all in a heap, frowning. What at? She
did not know. She did not mind. She could not
understand how she had ever felt any emotion or
any affection for him. She had a sense of being
past everything, through everything, out of every¬
thing, as she helped the soup, as if there was an
eddy—there—and one could be in it, or one
could be out of it, and she was out of it. It’s all
come to an end, she thought, while they came in
one after another, Charles Tansley—“ Sit there,
please,” she said—Augustus Carmichael—and sat
down. And meanwhile she waited, passively, for-
someone to answer her, for something to happen.
But this is not a thing, she thought, ladling out
soup, that one says.

Raising her eyebrows at the discrepancy—that
was what she was thinking, this was what she
was doing—ladling out soup—she felt, more and
more strongly, outside that eddy; or as if a shade
had fallen, and, robbed of colour, she saw things
truly. The room (she looked round it) was
very shabby. There was no beauty anywhere.
She forebore to look at Mr. Tansley. Nothing
seemed to have merged. They all sat separate.

130

THE WINDOW

And the whole of the effort of merging and
flowing and creating rested on her. Again she
felt, as a fact without hostility, the sterility
of men, for if she did not do hvW^widy would
do it, and so, giving herself the lit x ke that
one gives a watch that " has * fought k,e old
familiar pulse began beating, asmisely iff>sh. ; ,
begins ticking — one, tw r o, three, clean, as if,
three. And so on and so on, she re;s back
listening to it, sheltering and fostering the'ew),
feeble pulse as one might guard a weak flarls.
with a newspaper. And so then, she con¬
cluded, addressing herself by bending silently
in his direction to William Bankes—poor man!
who had no wife and no children, and dined alone
in lodgings except for to-night; and in pity for
him, life being now strong enough to bear her
on again, she began all this business, as a sailor
not without weariness sees the wind fill his sail
and yet hardly wants to be off again and thinks
how, had the ship sunk, he would have whirled
round and round and found rest on the floor of
the sea.

44 Did you find your letters? I told them to
put them in the hall for you,” she said to William
Bankes.

Lily Briscoe watched her drifting into that
strange no-man’s land where to follow people is

I 3 I

y

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

impossible and yet their/ going inflicts such a
chill on those who watch them that they always
try at least to follow them with their eyes as one
follows a ship until the sails have sunk

fbeneath A m Srizon.

Ho ^ now ' ie looks, how worn she looks, Lily
^.-crstand hc^ QW remote . Then when she turned

any affectl o r Bankes, smiling, it was as if the ship
past ever e( j an( j ^ sun j ia( j struck its sails again,

thi n ?Lily thought with some amusement because
e< ifc was relieved, Why does she pity him? For
that was the impression she gave, when she told
him that his letters were in the hall. Poor William

Bankes, she seemed to be saying, as if her own
weariness had been partly pitying people, and the
life in her, her resolve to live again, had been
stirred by pity. And it was not true, Lily thought;
it was one of those misjudgments of hers that
seemed to be instinctive and to arise from some
need of her own rather than of other people’s. He
is not in the least pitiable. He has his work, Lily
said to herself. She remembered, all of a sudden
as if she had found a treasure, that she too had her
work. In a flash she saw her picture, and thought,
Yes, I shall put the tree further in the middle;
then I shall avoid that awkward space. That’s
what I shall do. That’s what has been puzzling
me. She took up the salt cellar and put it down

132

THE WINDOW

again on a flower in the pattern in the table-cloth,
so as to remind herself to move the tree.

“ It’s odd that one scarcely gets anything worth
having by post, yet one always wants one’s
letters,” said Mr. Bankes.

What damned rot they talk, thought Charles
Tansley, laying down his spoon precisely in the
middle of his plate, which he had swept clean, as if,
Lily thought (he sat opposite to her with his back
to the window precisely in the middle of view),
he were determined to make sure of his meals.
Everything about him had that meagre fixity,
that bare unloveliness. But nevertheless, the fact
remained, it was almost impossible to dislike
anyone if one looked at them. She liked his eyes;
they were blue, deep set, frightening.

“ Do you write many letters, Mr. Tansley? ”
asked Mrs. Ramsay, pitying him too, Lily
supposed; for that was true of Mrs. Ramsay—
she pitied men always as if they lacked something
—women never, as if they had something. He
wrote to his mother; otherwise he did not suppose
he wrote one letter a month, said Mr. Tansley,
shortly.

For he was not going to talk the sort of rot
these people wanted him to talk. He was not
going to be condescended to by these silly women.
He had been reading in his room, and now he

133

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

came down and it all seemed to him silly, super¬
ficial, flimsy. Why did they dress? He had come
down in his ordinary clothes. He had not got any
dress clothes. 44 One never gets anything worth
having by post ”—that was the sort of thing they
were always saying. They made men say that
sort of thing. Yes, it was pretty well true, he
thought. They never got anything worth having
from one year’s end to another. They did nothing
but talk, talk, talk, eat, eat, eat. It was the
women’s fault. Women made civilisation impos¬
sible with all their 44 charm,” all their silliness.

44 No going to the Lighthouse to-morrow,
Mrs. Ramsay,” he said asserting himself. He
liked her; he admired her; he still thought of the
man in the drain-pipe looking up at her; but he
felt it necessary to assert himself.

He was really, Lily Briscoe thought, in spite of
his eyes, but then look at his nose, look at his
hands, the most uncharming human being she
had ever met. Then why did she mind what he
said? Women can’t write, women can’t paint—
what did that matter coming from him, since
clearly it was not true to him but for some
reason helpful to him, and that was why he said
it? Why did her whole being bow, like corn
under a wind, and erect itself again from this
abasement only with a great and rather painful
J 34

THE WINDOW

effort? She must make it once more. There’s the
sprig on the table-cloth; there’s my painting; I
must move the tree to the middle; that matters—
nothing else. Could she not hold fast to that, she
asked herself, and not lose her temper, and not
argue; and if she wanted a little revenge take it
by laughing at him?

Oh, Mr. Tansley,” she said, “ do take me to
the Lighthouse with you. I should so love it.”

She was telling lies he could see. She was
saying what she did not mean to annoy him, for
some reason. She was laughing at him. He was
in his old flannel trousers. He had no others. He
felt very rough and isolated and lonely. He knew
that she was trying to tease him for some reason;
she didn’t want to go to the Lighthouse with him;
she despised him: so did Prue Ramsay; so did
they all. But he was not going to be made a fool
of by women, so he turned deliberately in his
chair and looked out of the window and said, all
in a jerk, very rudely, it would be too rough for
her to-morrow. She would be sick.

It annoyed him that she should have made him
speak like that, with Mrs. Ramsay listening. If
only he could be alone in his room working, he
thought, among his books. That was where he
felt at his ease. And he had never run a penny
into debt; he had never cost his father a penny

*35

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

since he was fifteen; he had helped them at home
out of his savings; he was educating his sister.
Still, he wished he had known how to answer
Miss Briscoe properly; he wished it had not come
out all in a jerk like that. “ You’d be sick.” He
wished he could think of something to say to
Mrs. Ramsay, something which would show her
that he was not just a dry prig. That was what
they all thought him. He turned to her. But
Mrs. Ramsay was talking about people he had
never heard of to William Bankes.

“ Yes, take it away,” she said briefly, inter¬
rupting what she was saying to Mr. Bankes to
speak to the maid. “ It must have been fifteen—
no, twenty years ago—that I last saw her,” she
was saying, turning back to him again as if she
could not lose a moment of their talk, for she was
absorbed by what they were saying. So he had
actually heard from her this evening! And was
Carrie still living at Marlow, and was everything
still the same? Oh she could remember it as if
it were yesterday—going on the river, feeling very-
cold. But if the Mannings made a plan they
stuck to it. Never should she forget Herbert
killing a wasp with a teaspoon on the bank! And
it was still going on, Mrs. Ramsay mused, gliding
like a ghost among the chairs and tables of that
drawing-room on the banks of the Thames where
136

THE WINDOW

she had been so very, very cold twenty years ago;
but now she went among them like a ghost; and
it fascinated her, as if, while she had changed, that
particular day, now become very still and beautiful,
had remained there, all these years. Had Carrie
written to him herself? she asked.

“ Yes. She says they’re building a new
billiard room,” he said. No! No! That was out
of the question! Building a billiard room! It
seemed to her impossible.

Mr. Bankes could not see that there was
anything very odd about it. They were very
well off now. Should he give her love to
Carrie?

“ Oh,” said Mrs. Ramsay with a little start,
“ No,” she added, reflecting that she did not know
this Carrie who built a new billiard room. But
how strange, she repeated, to Mr. Bankes’s
amusement, that they should be going on there
still. For it was extraordinary to think that they
had been capable of going on living all these years
when she had not thought of them more than once
all that time. How eventful her own life had been,
during those same years. Yet perhaps Carrie
Manning had not thought about her either. The
thought was strange and distasteful.

“ People soon drift apart,” said Mr. Bankes, feel¬
ing, however, some satisfaction when he thought

137

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

that after all he knew both the Mannings and the
Ramsays. He had not drifted apart, he thought,
laying down his spoon and wiping his clean shaven
lips punctiliously. But perhaps he was rather
unusual, he thought, in this; he never let himself
get into a groove. He had friends in all circles.
. . . Mrs. Ramsay had to break off here to tell
the maid something about keeping food hot.
That was why he preferred dining alone. All
these interruptions annoyed him. Well, thought
William Bankes, preserving a demeanour of
exquisite courtesy and merely spreading the
fingers of his left hand on the table-cloth as a
mechanic examines a tool beautifully polished and
ready for use in an interval of leisure, such are the
sacrifices one s friends ask of one. It would have
hurt her if he had refused to come. But it was
not worth it for him. Looking at his hand he
thought that if he had been alone dinner would
have been almost over now; he would have been
free to work. Yes, he thought, it is a terrible
waste of time. The children were dropping in
still. “ I wish one of you would run up to Roger’s
room,” Mrs. Ramsay was saying. How trifling
it all is, how boring it all is, he thought, compared
with the other thing—work. Here he sat

drumming his fingers on the table-cloth when he
might have been—he took a flashing bird’s-eye

138

THE WINDOW

view of his work. What a waste of time it all
was to be sure! Yet, he thought, she is one of
my oldest friends. I am by way of being devoted
to her. Yet now, at this moment her presence
meant absolutely nothing to him: her beauty
meant nothing to him; her sitting with her little
boy at the window—nothing, nothing. He wished
only to be alone and to take up that book. He
felt uncomfortable; he felt treacherous, that he
could sit by her side and feel nothing for her.
The truth was that he did not enjoy family life.
It was in this sort of state that one asked oneself.
What does one live for? Why, one asked one¬
self, does one take all these pains for the human
race to go on? Is it so very desirable? Are we
attractive as a species? Not so very, he thought,
looking at those rather untidy boys. His fav¬
ourite, Cam, was in bed, he supposed. Foolish
questions, vain questions, questions one never
asked if one was occupied. Is human life this?
Is human life that? One never had time to think
about it. But here he was asking himself that sort
of question, because Mrs. Ramsay was giving
orders to servants, and also because it had struck
him, thinking how surprised Mrs. Ramsay was
that Carrie Manning should still exist, that friend¬
ships, even the best of them, are frail things. One
drifts apart. He reproached himself again. He

1 39

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

was sitting beside Mrs. Ramsay and he had
nothing in the world to say to her.

“ I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Ramsay, turning to
him at last. He felt rigid and barren, like a pair
of boots that has been soaked and gone dry so
that you can hardly force your feet into them.
Yet he must force his feet into them. He must
make himself talk. Unless he were very careful,
she would find out this treachery of his; that he
did not care a straw for her, and that would not
be at all pleasant, he thought. So he bent his
head courteously in her direction.

“ How you must detest dining in this bear
garden,” she said, making use, as she did when
she was distracted, of her social manner. So, when
there is a strife of tongues at some meeting, the
chairman, to obtain unity, suggests that every one
shall speak in French. Perhaps it is bad French;
French may not contain the words that express the
speaker’s thoughts; nevertheless speaking French
imposes some order, some uniformity. Replying
to her in the same language, Mr. Bankes said,
No, not at all,” and Mr. Tansley, who had no
knowledge of this language, even spoken thus in
words of one syllable, at once suspected its in¬
sincerity. They did talk nonsense, he thought,
the Ramsays; and he pounced on this fresh
instance with joy, making a note which, one of
140

THE WINDOW

these days, he would read aloud, to one or two
friends. There, in a society where one could say
what one liked he would sarcastically describe
staying with the Ramsays ” and what nonsense
they talked. It was worth while doing it once,
he would say; but not again. The women bored
one so, he would say. Of course Ramsay had
dished himself by marrying a beautiful woman and
having eight children. It would shape itself
something like that, but now, at this moment,
sitting stuck there with an empty seat beside him
nothing had shaped itself at all. It was all in
scraps and fragments. He felt extremely, even
physically, uncomfortable. He wanted some¬
body to give him a chance of asserting himself.
He wanted it so urgently that he fidgeted in his
chair, looked at this person, then at that person,
tried to break into their talk, opened his mouth
and shut it again. They were talking about the
fishing industry. Why did no one ask him his
opinion? What did they know about the fishing
industry?

Lily Briscoe knew all that. Sitting opposite
him could she not see, as in an X-ray photograph,
the ribs and thigh bones of the young man’s desire
to impress himself lying dark in the mist of his
flesh—that thin mist which convention had laid
over his burning desire to break into the

141

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

conversation? But, she thought, screwing up
her Chinese eyes, and remembering how he
sneered at women, “ can’t paint, can’t write ”,
why should I help him to relieve himself?

There is a code of behaviour she knew, whose
seventh article (it may be) says that on occasions
of this sort it behoves the woman, whatever
her own occupation may be, to go to the help
of the young man opposite so that he may
expose and relieve the thigh bones, the ribs, of
his vanity, of his urgent desire to assert himself;
as indeed it is their duty, she reflected, in her
old maidenly fairness, to help us, suppose the
Tube were to burst into flames. Then, she
thought, I should certainly expect Mr. Tansley
to get me out. But how would it be, she thought,
if neither of us did either of these things? So she
sat there smiling.

“ You’re not planning to go to the Lighthouse,
are you, Lily? ” said Mrs. Ramsay. “ Remember
poor Mr. Langley; he had been round the world
dozens of times, but he told me he never suffered
as he did when my husband took him there. Are
you a good sailor, Mr. Tansley? ” she asked.

Mr. Tansley raised a hammer: swung it high
in air; but realising, as it descended, that he could
not smite that butterfly with such an instrument
as this, said only that he had never been sick in
142

the window

his life. But in that one sentence lay compact,
like gunpowder, that his grandfather was a
fisherman; his father a chemist; that he had
worked his way up entirely himself; that he was
proud of it; that he was Charles Xansley—a fact
that nobody there seemed to realise; but one of
these days every single person would know it.
He scowled ahead of him. He could almost pity
these mild cultivated people, who would be blown
sky high, like bales of wool and barrels of apples,

one of these days by the gunpowder that was in
him.

Will you take me, Mr. Tansley? ” said Lily,
quickly, kindly, for, of course, if Mrs. Ramsay said
to her, as in effect she did, “ I am drowning, my
dear, in seas of fire. Unless you-apply some balm
to the anguish of this hour and say something nice
to that young man there, life will run upon the
rocks—indeed I hear the grating and the growling
at this minute. My nerves are taut as fiddle

strings. Another touch and they will snap ”_

when Mrs. Ramsay said all this, as the glance in
her eyes said it, of course for the hundred and
fiftieth time Lily Briscoe had to renounce the
experiment—what happens if one is not nice to
that young man there—and be nice.

Judging the turn in her mood correctly—that
she was friendly to him now—he was relieved of

H3

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

his egotism, and told her how he had been thrown
out of a boat when he was a baby; how his fathe
used to fish him out with a boat-hook; that was
how he had learnt to swim. One of his uncles
kept the light on some rock or other off t h S
Scottish coast, he said. He had been there with
him in a storm. This was said loudly in a pause
They had to listen to him when he said that he
had been with his uncle in a lighthouse i n a
storm. Ah, thought Lily Briscoe, as the con¬
versation took this auspicious turn, and she felt
Mrs. Ramsay’s gratitude (for Mrs. Ramsay Was
free now to talk for a moment herself), ah she
thought, but what haven’t I paid to get it for’you?
She had not been sincere, 7

She had done the usual trick—been nice She
would never know him. He would never know
her. Human relations were all like that she
thought, and the worst (if it had not been for Mr
Bankes) were between men and women. l n _
evitably these were extremely insincere The
her eye caught the salt cellar, which she had
placed there to remind her, and she remembered
that next morning she would move the tree for the,
towards the middle, and her spirits rose so hfoh
at the thought of painting to-morrow that she
laughed out loud at what Mr. Tansley was sayino-
Let him talk all night if he liked it. 7 g '

144

THE WINDOW

“ But how long do they leave men on a Light¬
house? ” she asked. He told her. He was
amazingly well informed. And as he was grateful,
and as he liked her, and as he was beginning to
enjoy himself, so now, Mrs. Ramsay thought, she
could return to that dream land, that unreal but
fascinating place, the Mannings’ drawing-room at
Marlow twenty years ago; where one moved
about without haste or anxiety, for there was
no future to worry about. She knew what had
happened to them, what to her. It was like
reading a good book again, for she knew the end
of that story, since it had happened twenty years
ago, and life, which shot down even from this
dining-room table in cascades, heaven knows
where, was sealed up there, and lay, like a lake,
placidly between its banks. He said they had
built a billiard room—was it possible? Would
William go on talking about the Mannings? She
wanted him to. But no—for some reason he was
no longer in the mood. She tried. He did not
respond. She could not force him. She was
disappointed.

“ The children are disgraceful,” she said,
sighing. He said something about punctuality
being one of the minor virtues which we do not
acquire until later in life.

“ If at all,” said Mrs. Ramsay merely to fill up

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

space, thinking what an old maid William wT

to c xr of iis --w, cr ci :

r= t our: f h r:i k tT“rr;r mate -

over him the disagreeableness of life,

waiting. Perhaps the others were saying some'

Th^rw--' What were ^ 44 ?

were emi^tfnt”™**” ^ ^ me ”
and unemployment Thl'v'o ^ ^ ab ° Ut "’ ages

the governmln" WiSmZf “1™

a relief i, was t0 B “ k “> A-nkingwhat

sort when nrivam 1 ? ^ ” SOmetilin g of this
wnen private life was disagrees hi*. u„_ j , .

sa y something about “ one of fa ’ ^ ” d h,m
actqoffL 0 s one °f the most scandalous ’

acts ot the present government ” T ;i„ ,

“g! Mrs. Ramsay was ““in, b
listening. But already ltd Tiff vZ *“ * '
thing was lacking- Mr Rant 7 f f * at s ° me -

thing was lacking ' P ir a CS 6 ? ^ at some -

Mrs Ramsay fdi 4“ g "a ^ r0 “ d ^

• be exDoserl ” c , * m y mind may not

uc exposed, for each thought “Th~ 7

feeling this lw 0 §M ’ l he ot ^ers are

** g . h e zr t ^ s t isnm
ULTi r ?■" But p=™p”.'

here fs Z man o“ 6 ^ at Mr ' Tansliy
146 ■ °” e TO waiting

THE WINDOW

the man. There was always a chance. At any
moment the leader might arise; the man of
genius, in politics as in anything else. Probably
he will be extremely disagreeable to us old fogies,
thought Mr. Bankes, doing his best to make
allowances, for he knew by some curious physical
sensation, as of nerves erect in his spine, that
he was jealous, for himself partly, partly more
probably for his work, for his point of view, for
his science; and therefore he was not entirely
open-minded or altogether fair, for Mr. Tansley
seemed to be saying, You have wasted your lives.
You are all of you wrong. Poor old fogies, you’re
hopelessly behind the times. He seemed to be
rather cocksure, this young man; and his
manners were bad. But Mr. Bankes bade him¬
self observe, he had courage; he had ability; he
was extremely well up in the facts. Probably,
Mr. Bankes thought, as Tansley abused the
government, there is a good deal in what he says.

‘ Tell me now . . .” he said. So they argued
about politics, and Lily looked at the leaf on the
table-cloth; and Mrs. Ramsay, leaving the argu¬
ment entirely in the hands of the two men,
wondered why she was so bored by this talk, and
wished, looking at her husband at the other end
of the table, that he would say something. One
word, she said to herself. For if he said a thing,

147

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

it would make all the difference. He went to the
heart of things. He cared about fishermen and
their wages. He could not sleep for thinking of
them. It was altogether different when he spoke;
one did not feel then, pray heaven you don’t see
how little I care, because one did care. Then,
realising that it was because she admired him
so much that she was waiting for him to speak,
she felt as if somebody had been praising her
husband to her and their marriage, and she
glowed all over without realising that it was she
herself who had praised him. She looked at him
thinking to find this shown in his face; he would
be looking magnificent. . . . But not in the least!
He was screwing his face up, he was scowling
and frowning, and flushing with anger. What
on earth was it about? she wondered. What could
be the matter? Only that poor old Augustus had
asked for another plate of soup—that was all. It
was unthinkable, it was detestable (so he signalled
to her across the table) that Augustus should be
beginning his soup over again. He loathed people
eating when he had finished. She saw his anger
fly like a pack of hounds into his eyes, his brow,
and she knew that in a moment something violent
would explode, and then—but thank goodness!
she saw him clutch himself and clap a brake on the
wheel, and the whole of his body seemed to emit
148

the window

sparks but not words. He sat there scowling.
He had said nothing, he would have her observe.
Let her give him the credit for that! But why
after all should poor Augustus not ask for another

plate of soup? He had merely touched Ellen’s
arm and said:

“ Ellen, please, another plate of soup,” and
then Mr. Ramsay scowled like that.

And why not? Mrs. Ramsay demanded.
Surely they could let Augustus have his soup if
he wanted it. He hated people wallowing in
food, Mr. Ramsay frowned at her. He hated
everything dragging on for hours like this. But
he had controlled himself, Mr. Ramsay would
have her observe, disgusting though the sight
was. But why show it so plainly, Mrs. Ramsay
demanded (they looked at each other down the
long table sending these questions and answers
across, each knowing exactly what the other felt).
Everybody could see, Mrs. Ramsay thought.
There was Rose gazing at her father, there was
Roger gazing at his father; both would be off in
spasms of laughter in another second, she knew,
and so she said promptly (indeed it was time) :

Light the candles,” and they jumped up
instantly and went and fumbled at the sideboard.

Why could he never conceal his feelings?
Mrs. Ramsay wondered, and she wondered if

149

* ii JCi

-— OH,

Augustus Carmichael had noticed. Perhaps he
had; perhaps he had not. She could not help
respecting the composure with which he sat there
drinking his soup. If he wanted soup, h. asked
for soup. Whether people laughed at him or were
angry with him he was the same. He did not like
her, she knew that; but partly for that very reason
she respected him, and looking at him, drinking
soup, very large and calm in the failing light and

XtTTtl’ rf u COntempktive ’ she wondered
what he did feel then, and why he was always

content and dignified; and she thought how
• , f d he WaS t0 Andrew > and would call him

thinp-s ” r d ’ Said ’ “ show him

thr f ’ And f here he would lie all day long on
e lawn brooding presumably over his poetry,

h enlTT 1 1 r ° f a Cat Watchin ^ aS

hen he dappoi his paws together when he had

found the word, and her husband said, “ Poor old

Augustus he’s a true poet,” which wa high

praise from her husband. g

Now eight candles were stood down the table
and after the first stoop the flames stood uprighl
and *ew with them into visibility the long table
entire and in the middle a yellow and purple
dish of fru„ What had she done with it^Mm
Ramsay wondered, for Rose’s arrangement of thi
grapes and pears, of the horny pink-lined shell, of

the window

the bananas, made her think of a trophy fetched
from the bottom of the sea, of Neptune’s
banquet, of the bunch that hangs with vine leaves
over the shoulder of Bacchus (in some picture),
among the leopard skins and the torches lolloping
red and gold. . . . Thus brought up suddenly
into the light it seemed possessed of great size
and depth, was like a world in which one could
take one’s staff and climb up hills, she thought,
and go down into valleys, and to her pleasure (for
it brought them into sympathy momentarily) she
saw that Augustus too feasted his eyes on the
same plate of fruit, plunged in, broke off a bloom
there, a tassel here, and returned, after feasting,
to his hive. That was his way of looking, different
from hers. But looking together united them.

Now all the candles were lit, and the faces
on both sides of the table were brought nearer by
the candle light, and composed, as they had not
been in the twilight, into a party round a table
for the night was now shut off by panes of glass,
which, far from giving any accurate view of the
outside world, rippled it so strangely that here,
inside the room, seemed to be order and dry land;
there, outside, a reflection in which things wavered*
and vanished, waterily.

Some change at once went through them all,
as if this had really happened, and they were all

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

conscious of making a party together in a hollow,
on an island; had their common cause against
that fluidity out there. Mrs. Ramsay, who had
been uneasy, waiting for Paul and Minta to come
in, and unable, she felt, to settle to things, now
felt her uneasiness changed to expectation. For
now they must come, and Lily Briscoe, trying to
analyse the cause of the sudden exhilaration,
compared it with that moment on the tennis lawn,
when solidity suddenly vanished, and such vast
spaces lay between them; and now the same
effect was got by the many candles in the sparely
furnished room, and the uncurtained windows,
and the bright mask-like look of faces seen by
candlelight. Some weight was taken off them;
anything might happen, she felt. They must
come now, Mrs. Ramsay thought, looking at the
door, and at that instant, Minta Doyle, Paul
Rayley, and a maid carrying a great dish in her
hands came in together. They were awfully late;
they were horribly late, Minta said, as they found
their way to different ends of the table.

I lost my brooch — my grandmother’s
brooch,” said Minta with a sound of lamentation
in her voice, and a suffusion in her large brown
eyes, looking down, looking up, as she sat by
Mr. Ramsay, which roused his chivalry so that
he bantered her,

THE WINDOW

How could she be such a goose, he asked, as
to scramble about the rocks in jewels?

She was by way of being terrified of him—he
was so fearfully clever, and the first night when
she had sat by him, and he talked about George
Eliot, she had been really frightened, for she had
left the third volume of Middlemarch in the train
and she never knew what happened in the end;
but afterwards she got on perfectly, and made
herself out even more ignorant than she was,
because he liked telling her she was a fool. And
so to-night, directly he laughed at her, she was
not frightened. Besides, she knew, directly she
came into the room, that the miracle had happened;
she wore her golden haze. Sometimes she had it;
sometimes not. She never knew why it came or
why it went, or if she had it until she came into
the room and then she knew instantly by the way
some man looked at her. Yes, to-night she had
it, tremendously; she knew that by the way Mr.
Ramsay told her not to be a fool. She sat beside
him, smiling.

It must have happened then, thought Mrs.
Ramsay; they are engaged. And for a moment
she felt what she had never expected to feel again
—-jealousy. For he, her husband, felt it too—
Minta’s glow; he liked these girls, these golden-
reddish girls, with something flying, something a

H3

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

little wild and harum-scarum about them, who
didn’t “scrape their hair off”, weren’t, as he said
about poor Lily Briscoe, “ skimpy”. There was
some quality which she herself had not, some
lustre, some richness, which attracted him,
amused him, led him to make favourites of girls
like Minta. They might cut his hair for him,
plait him watch-chains, or interrupt him at his
work, hailing him (she heard them), “ Come
along, Mr. Ramsay; it’s our turn to beat them
now,” and out he came to play tennis.

But indeed she was not jealous, only, now and
then, when she made herself look in her glass a
little resentful that she had grown old, perhaps,
by her own fault. (The bill for the greenhouse
and all the rest of it.) She was grateful to them
for laughing at him. (“ How many pipes have
you smoked to-day, Mr. Ramsay? ” and so on),
till he seemed a young man; a man very attractive
to women, not burdened, not weighed down with
the greatness of his labours and the sorrows of the
world and his fame or his failure, but again as she
had first known him, gaunt but gallant; helping
her out of a boat, she remembered; with de¬
lightful ways, like that (she looked at him, and
he looked astonishingly young, teasing Minta).
For herself—“Put it down there,” she said,
helping the Swiss girl to place gently before her
H4

THE WINDOW

the huge brown pot in which was the Bceuf en
Daube—for her own part she liked her boobies.
Paul must sit by her. She had kept a place for
him. Really, she sometimes thought she liked
the boobies best. They did not bother one with
their dissertations. How much they missed,
after all, these very clever men! How dried up
they did become, to be sure. There was some-
thing, she thought as he sat down, very charming
about Paul. His manners were delightful to her,
and his sharp cut nose and his bright blue eyes.
He was so considerate. Would he tell her—now
that they were all talking again—what had
happened?

“We went back to look for Minta’s brooch,”
he said, sitting down by her. “ We ”—that was
enough. She knew from the effort, the rise in his
voice to surmount a difficult word that it was the
first time he had said “ we “ We ” did this
“we did that. They’ll say that all their lives, she
thought, and an exquisite scent of olives and oil
and juice rose from the great brown dish as
Marthe, with a little flourish, took the cover off.
The cook had spent three days over that dish.
And she must take great care, Mrs. Ramsay
thought, diving into the soft mass, to choose a
specially tender piece for William Bankes. And
she peered into the dish, with its shiny walls and

tss

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

its confusion of savoury brown and yellow meats,
and its bay leaves and its wine, and thought,
This will celebrate the occasion—a curious sense
rising in her, at once freakish and tender, of
celebrating a festival, as if two emotions were
called up in her, one profound—for what could be
more serious than the love of man for woman,
what more commanding, more impressive, bearing
in its bosom the seeds of death; at the same time
these lovers, these people entering into illusion
glittering eyed, must be danced round with
mockery, decorated with garlands.

“ It is a triumph,” said Mr. Bankes, laying his
knife down for a moment. He had eaten atten¬
tively. It was rich; it was tender. It was per¬
fectly cooked. How did she manage these things
in the depths of the country? he asked her. She
was a wonderful woman. All his love, all his
reverence had returned; and she knew it.

“ It is a French recipe of my grandmother’s,”
said Mrs. Ramsay, speaking with a ring of great
pleasure in her voice. Of course it was French.
What passes for cookery in England is an
abomination (they agreed). It is putting cabbages
in water. It is roasting meat till it is like leather.
It is cutting off the delicious skins of vegetables.
“ In which,” said Mr. Bankes, “ all the virtue of
the vegetable is contained.” And the waste, said
156

TEE WINDOW

Mrs. Ramsay. A whole French family could live
on what an English cook throws away. Spurred
on by her sense that William’s affection had come
back to her, and that everything was all right
again, and that her suspense was over, and that
now she was free both to triumph and to mock,
she laughed, she gesticulated, till Lily thought,
How childlike, how absurd she was, sitting up
there with all her beauty opened again in her,
talking about the skins of vegetables. There was
something frightening about her. She was irre-
sistible. Always she got her own way in the end,

Lily thought. Now she had brought this off_

aul and Mmta, one might suppose, were engaged.
Mr. Bankes was dining here. She put a spell on
them all, by wishing, so simply, so directly; and
Lily contrasted that abundance with her own
poverty of spirit, and supposed that it was partly
that belief (for her face was all lit up—without
looking young, she looked radiant) in this strange,
this terrifying thing, which made Paul Rayley
the centre of it, all of a tremor, yet abstract,’
absorbed, silent. Mrs. Ramsay, Lily felt, as she
talked about the skins of vegetables, exalted
that, worshipped that; held her hands over it to
warm them, to protect it, and yet, having brought
it all about, somehow laughed, led her victims,
Lily felt, to the altar. It came over her too now—

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

the emotion, the vibration of love. How incon¬
spicuous she felt herself by Paul’s side! He,
glowing, burning; she, aloof, satirical; he, bound
for adventure; she, moored to the shore; he,
launched, incautious; she solitary, left out —
and, ready to implore a share, if it were disaster,
in his disaster, she said shyly:

“ When did Minta lose her brooch? ”

He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by
memory, tinged by dreams. He shook his head.

“ On the beach,” he said.

“I’m going to find it,” he said, “I’m getting
up early.” This being kept secret from Minta, he
lowered his voice, and turned his eyes to where she
sat, laughing, beside Mr. Ramsay.

Lily wanted to protest violently and out- -
rageously her desire to help him, envisaging how
in the dawn on the beach she would be the one to
pounce on the brooch half-hidden by some stone,
and thus herself be included among the sailors
and adventurers. But what did he reply to her
offer? She actually said with an emotion that she
seldom let appear, “ Let me come with you ”; and
he laughed. He meant yes or no—either perhaps.
But it was not his meaning—it was the odd
chuckle he gave, as if he had said, Throw yourself
over the cliff if you like, I don’t care. He turned
on her cheek the heat of love, its horror, its
158

the window

crueky, its unscrupulosity. It scorched her, and
ily, looking at Minta being charming to Mr
Ramsay at the other end of the table, flinched for
her exposed to those fangs, and was thankful.

or at any rate, she said to herself, catching sight
of the salt cellar on the pattern, she need not
marry thank Heaven: she need not undergo that
egradation. She was saved from that dilution.

She would move the tree rather more to the
middle.

Such was the complexity of things. For what

happened to her, especially staying with the
Ramsays, was to be made to feel violently two
opposite things at the same time; that’s what you
feel, was one; that’s what I feel was the other,
and then they fought together in her mind, as now.
it is so beautiful, so exciting, this love, that I
tremble on the verge of it, and offer, quite out of
my own habit, to look for a brooch on a beach-
also it is the stupidest, the most barbaric of human

~ and tU ™ a 7<>ung man with a
p ofile like a gem (Paul’s was exquisite) into a
bully with a crowbar (he was swaggering, he was
insolent) in the Mile End Road. Yet she said to
herself, from the dawn of time odes have been
sung to love; wreaths heaped and roses; and if
you asked nine people out often they would say
they wanted nothing but this; while the women,

*59

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

judging from her own experience, would all the
time be feeling, This is not what we want; there
is nothing more tedious, puerile, and inhumane
than love; yet it is also beautiful and necessary.
Well then, well then? she asked, somehow expect¬
ing the others to go on with the argument, as
if in an argument like this one threw one’s own
little bolt which fell short obviously and left the
others to carry it on. So she listened again to
what they were saying in case they should throw
any light upon the question of love.

“ Then,” said Mr. Bankes, “ there is that
liquid the English call coffee.”

“ Oh coffee! ” said Mrs. Ramsay. But it
was much rather a question (she was thoroughly
roused, Lily could see, and talked very emphati¬
cally) of real butter and clean milk. Speaking
with warmth and eloquence she described the
iniquity of the English dairy system, and in what
state milk was delivered at the door, and was about
to prove her charges, for she had gone into the
matter, when all round the table, beginning with
Andrew in the middle, like a fire leaping from
tuft to tuft of furze, her children laughed; her
husband laughed; she was laughed at, fire-
encircled, and forced to vail her crest, dismount
her batteries, and only retaliate by displaying the
raillery and ridicule of the table to Mr. Bankes
160

f

le

re

le

y*

:t>

as

m

le

to

m

at

it

iy

ti-_

»g

ie

at

it

le

:h

m

IT

It

ie

iS'

\

V*

^ the window

as an example of what one suffered if one attacked
the prejudices of the British Public.

th 3 fr i poseI r h r;r r ’ for she had k ° n her

that Lily who had helped her with Mr. Tanslev
was out of things, she exempted her from the res t;
said Lily anyhow agrees with me,” and so drew
her in a little fluttered, a little startled. (Tor she

r t ng out iove ° The ^ were bodi out of

ings, Mrs Ramsay had been thinking, both
Lily and Charles Tansley. Both suffered from
the glow of the other two. He, it was clear, felt
himself utterly in the cold; no woman would look

f 11 in ? Paul RayIey in the room - Poor
e ow. Still, he had his dissertation, the in-

fluence of somebody upon something: he could

take care of himself. With Lily it was different.

She faded, under Minta’s gl OW; became more

inconspicuous than ever, in her little grey dress

with her little puckered face and her little Chinese

eyes. Everything about her was so small. Yet

thought Mrs Ramsay, comparing her with Min,a,’

s she c aimed her help (for Lily should bear her

T K a n a “ m ° re ab0ut her dai ri“ than her
husband did about his boots—he would talk by

.* h k 0Urab ° Ut hlS boots )> of tbe two Lily at forty
will be the better. There was in Lily a thread of
something; a flare of something; something of
her own which Mrs. Ramsay liked very much

161

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

indeed, but no man would, she feared. Obviously,
not, unless it were a much older man, like William
Bankes. But then he cared, well, Mrs. Ramsay
sometimes thought that he cared, since his wife’s
death, perhaps for her. He was not “ in love ”
of course; it was one of those unclassified affec¬
tions of which there are so many. Oh but
nonsense, she thought; William must marry Lily.
They have so many things in common. Lily is
so fond of flowers. They are both cold and aloof
and rather self-sufficing. She must arrange for
them to take a long walk together.

Foolishly, she had set them opposite each
other. That could be remedied to-morrow If
it were fine, they should go for a picnic. Every¬
thing seemed possible. Everything seemed right.
Just now (but this cannot last, she thought
dissociating herself from the moment while they
were all talking about boots) just now she had
reached security; she hovered like a hawk
suspended; like a flag floated in an element of
joy which filled every nerve of her body fully and,
sweetly, not noisily, solemnly rather, for it arose*
she thought, looking at them all eating there*
rom husband and children and friends; all ot-
which rising in this profound stillness (she was*
e ping i ham Bankes to one very small piece*

more and peered into the depths of the earthen-*®
1 02

THE WINDOW

ware pot) seemed now for no special reason to
stay there like a smoke, like a fume rising upwards,
holding them safe together. Nothing need be
said; nothing could be said. There it was, all
round them. It partook, she felt, carefully
helping Mr. Bankes to a specially tender piece,
of eternity; as she had already felt about some¬
thing different once before that afternoon; there
is a coherence in things, a stability; something,
she meant, is immune from change, and shines
out (she glanced at the window with its ripple of
reflected lights) in the face of the flowing, the
fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby; so that again
to-night she had the feeling she had had once
to-day already, of peace, of rest. Of such moments,

' s ^ e bought, the thing is made that remains for
ever after. This would remain.

Yes, she assured William Bankes, “ there
is plenty for everybody.”

Andrew, she said, “ hold your plate lower,
or I shall spill it.” (The Bceuf en Daube was a
perfect triumph.) Here, she felt, putting the
jspoon down, was the still space that lies about the
Jheart of things, where one could move or rest-
could wait now (they were all helped) listening
could, then, like a hawk which lapses suddcnK-
from its high station, flaunt and sink on laughter
easily, resting her whole weight upon what at the

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

other end of the table her husband was saying
about the square root of one thousand two
hundred and fifty-three, which happened to be
the number on his railway ticket.

What did it all mean? To this day she had no
notion. A square root? What was that? Her
sons knew. She leant on them; on cubes and
square roots; that was what they were talking
about now; on Voltaire and Madame de Stael;
on the character of Napoleon; on the French
system of land tenure; on Lord Rosebery; on
Creevey’s Memoirs: she let it uphold her and
sustain her, this admirable fabric of the masculine
intelligence, which ran up and down, crossed thi$l
way and that, like iron girders spanning the,
swaying fabric, upholding the world, so that she
could trust herself to it utterly, even shut her eyes,?
or flicker them for a moment, as a child staring
up from its pillow winks at the myriad layers of
the leaves of a tree. Then she woke up. It was
still being fabricated. William Bankes was’
praising the Waverley novels.

He read one of them every six months, he said.
And why should that make Charles Tansley
angry? He rushed in (all, thought Mrs. Ramsay,
because Prue will not be nice to him) and de¬
nounced the Waverley novels when he knew
nothing about it, nothing about it whatsoever,

164

the window

Mrs. Ramsay thought, observing him rather
than listening to what he said. She could see
how it was from his manner—he wanted to assert
himself, and so it would always be with him till
he got his Professorship or married his wife, and

so need not be always saying, “ I_I_p or

that was what his criticism of poor Sir Walter
or perhaps it was Jane Austen, amounted to!

‘' 1 ' l ~ [ ” He was thinking of himself and

the impression he was making, as she could
tell by the sound of his voice, and his emphasis
and his uneasiness. Success would be good for
him. At anyrate they were off again. Now
jhe need not listen. It could not last she
knew but at the moment her eyes were so clear
that they seemed to go round the table unveiling
I/ f C , h ° f theSe P eo P le ’ and their thoughts and their

3 f| feehn S s > WIthout effort Hke a light stealing under

ls f Wa f r u 30 that i^ ripples and the reeds in it

is! ^ innows balancing themselves, and the

f? dden sdent L trout are ad Ht np hanging, trem-
1 ! ng - So she saw them; she heard them; but

• whatever they said had also this quality, as if

r W ^ at the y said was like the movement of a trout

’ when at the same time, one can see the ripple

v r' u g J aVe1, somethin g to the right, something
to the left; and the whole is held together; for

whereas in active life she would be netting and

I

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

separating one thing from another; she would
be saying she liked the Waverley Novels or had
not read them; she would be urging herself
forward; now she said nothing. For the moment
she hung suspended.

“ Ah, but how long do you think it’ll last? ”
said somebody. It was as if she had antennae
trembling out from her, which, intercepting cer¬
tain sentences, forced them upon her attention.
This was one of them. She scented danger for
her husband. A question like that would lead,
almost certainly, to something being said which
reminded him of his own failure. How long
would he be read—he would think at once.
'Vv illiam Bankes (who was entirely free from all
such vanity) laughed, and said he attached no
importance to changes in fashion. Who could
tell what was going to last—in literature or indeed
in anything else?

“ Let us enjoy what we do enjoy,” he said.
His integrity seemed to Mrs. Ramsay quite
admirable. He never seemed for a moment to
think, But how does this affect me? But then
if you had the other temperament, which must
have praise, which must have encouragement,
naturally you began (and she knew that Mr.
Ramsay was beginning) to be uneasy; to want
somebody to say, Oh, but your work will last
166

THE WINDOW

Mr. Ramsay, or something like that. He showed
his uneasiness quite clearly now by saying, with
some irritation, that, anyhow, Scott (or was it
Shakespeare?) would last him his lifetime. He
said it irritably. Everybody, she thought, felt
a little uncomfortable, without knowing why.
Then Minta Doyle, whose instinct was fine, said
bluffly, absurdly, that she did not believe that
any one really enjoyed reading Shakespeare.
Mr. Ramsay said grimly (but his mind was turned
away again) that very few people liked it as much
as they said they did. But, he added, there is
considerable merit in some of the plays neverthe¬
less, and Mrs. Ramsay saw that it would be all
right for the moment anyhow; he would laugh
at Minta, and she, Mrs. Ramsay saw, realising
his extreme anxiety about himself, would, in her
own way, see that he was taken care of, and praise
him, somehow or other. But she wished it was
not necessary: perhaps it was her fault that it
was necessary. Anyhow, she was free now to
listen to what Paul Rayley was trying to say about
books one had read as a boy. They lasted, he
said. He had read some of Tolstoi at school.
There was one he always remembered, but he had
forgotten the name. Russian names were im¬
possible, said Mrs. Ramsay. “ Vronsky,” said
Paul. He remembered that because he always

167

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

thought it such a good name for a villain.
“Vronsky,” said Mrs. Ramsay; “ O, Anna
Karenina, but that did not take them very
far; books were not in their line. No, Charles
Tansley would put them both right in a second
about books, but it was all so mixed up with,
Am I saying the right thing? Am I making a
good impression? that, after all, one knew more
about him than about Tolstoi, whereas what
Paul said was about the thing simply, not him¬
self. Like all stupid people, he had a kind of
modesty too, a consideration for what you were
feeling, which, once in a way at least, she found
attractive. Now he was thinking, net about
himself or about Tolstoi, but whether she was
cold, whether she felt a draught, whether she
would like a pear.

No, she said, she did not want a pear. Indeed
she had been keeping guard over the dish of
fruit (without realising it) jealously, hoping that
nobody would touch it. Her eyes had been
going in and out among the curves and shadows
of the fruit, among the rich purples of the low¬
land grapes, then over the horny ridge of the
shell, putting a yellow against a purple, a curved
shape against a round shape, without knowing
why she did it, or why, every time she did it, she
felt more and more serene; until, oh, what a
168

THE WINDOW

pity that they should do it—a hand reached out,
took a pear, and spoilt the whole thing. In
sympathy she looked at Rose. She looked at
Rose sitting between Jasper and Prue. How
odd that one’s child should do that!

How odd to see them sitting there, in a row,
her children, Jasper, Rose, Prue, Andrew, almost
silent, but with some joke of their own going on,
she guessed, from the twitching at their lips. It
was something quite apart from everything else,
something they were hoarding up to laugh over
in their own room. It was not about their father,
she hoped. No, she thought not. What was
it, she wondered, sadly rather, for it seemed to
her that they would laugh when she was not
there. There was all that hoarded behind those
rather set, still, mask-like faces, for they did
not join in easily; they were like watchers,
surveyors, a little raised or set apart from the
grown-up people. But when she looked at Prue
to-night, she saw that this was not now quite true
of her. She was just beginning, just moving,
just descending. The faintest light was on her
face, as if the glow of Minta opposite, some
excitement, some anticipation of happiness was
reflected in her, as if the sun of the love of men
and women rose over the rim of the table-cloth,
and without knowing what it was she bent

169

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

towards it and greeted it. She kept looking at
Minta, shyly, yet curiously, so that Mrs. Ramsay
looked from one to the other and said, speaking
to Prue in her own mind, You will be as happy as
she is one of these days. You will be much
happier, she added, because you are my daughter,
she meant; her own daughter must be happier
than other people’s daughters. But dinner was
over. . It was time to go. They were only play¬
ing with things on their plates. She would wait
until they had done laughing at some story her
husband was telling. He was having a joke with
Minta about a bet. Then she would get up.

She liked Charles Tansley, she thought,'sud¬
denly; she liked his laugh. She liked him for
being so angry with Paul and Minta. She liked
his awkwardness. There was a lot in that young
man after all. And Lily, she thought, putting
her napkin beside her plate, she always has some
joke of her own. One need never bother about
Lily. She waited. She tucked her napkin under
the edge of her plate. ’Well, were they done now?
No. That story had led to another story. Her
husband was in great spirits to-night, and wishing,
she supposed, to make it all right with old
Augustus after that scene about the soup, had
drawn him in—they were telling stories about
some one they had both known at college. She
170

THE WINDOW

looked at the window in which the candle flames
burnt brighter now that the panes were black, and
looking at that outside the voices came to her very
strangely, as if they were voices at a service in a
cathedral, for she did not listen to the words. The
sudden bursts of laughter and then one voice
(Mmta’s) speaking alone, reminded her of men and
boys crying out the Latin words of a service in some
Roman Catholic cathedral. She waited. Her
husband spoke. He was repeating something,
and she knew it was poetry from the rhythm and
the ring of exaltation and melancholy in his voice;

Come out and climb the garden path.

Imriana Lurilee.

The China rose is all abloom and buzzing with the yellow bee.

The words (she was looking at the window)
sounded as if they were floating like flowers on
water out there, cut off from them all, as if no one
had said them, but they had come into existence
of themselves.

all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be
full of trees and changing leaves.

She did not know what they meant, but, like
music 3 the words seemed to be spoken by her own
voice, outside her self, saying quite easily and
naturally what had been in her mind the whole
evening while she said different things. She knew,

171

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

without looking round, that every one at the table
was listening to the voice saying:

I wonder if it seems to you
Luriana, Lurilee

with the same sort of relief and pleasure that she
had, as if this were, at last, the natural thing to
say, this were their own voice speaking.

But the voice stopped. She looked round.
She made herself get up. Augustus Carmichael
had risen and, holding his table napkin so that it
looked like a long white robe he stood chanting:

To see the Kings go riding by

Over lawn and daisy lea

With their palm leaves and cedar sheaves,

Luriana, Lurilee,

and as she passed him he turned slightly towards
her repeating the last words:

Luriana, Lurilee,

and bowed to her as if he did her homage.
Without knowing why, she felt that he liked her
better than he had ever done before; and with a
feeling of relief and gratitude she returned his
bow and passed through the door which he held
open for her.

It was necessary now to carry everything a step
further. With her foot on the threshold she
waited a moment longer in a scene which was
172

THE WINDOW

vanishing even as she looked, and then, as she
moved and took Minta’s arm and left the room,
it changed, it shaped itself differently; it had
become, she knew, giving one last look at it over
her shoulder, already the past.

18

As usual, Lily thought. There was always
something that had to be done at that precise
moment, something that IVlrs. Ramsay had
decided for reasons of her own to do instantly, it
might be with every one standing about making
jokes, as now, not being able to decide whether
they were going into the smoking-room, into the
drawing-room, up to the attics. Then one saw
Mrs. Ramsay in the midst of this hubbub standing
there with Minta’s arm in hers, bethink her
“ Yes, it is time for that now,” and so make off
at once with an air of secrecy to do something
alone. And directly she went a sort of disin¬
tegration set in; they wavered about, went
different ways, Mr. Bankes took Charles Tansley
by the arm and went off to finish on the terrace
the discussion they had begun at dinner about
politics, thus giving a turn to the whole poise of
the evening, making the weight fall in a different
direction, as if, Lily thought, seeing them go, and
hearing a word or two about the policy of the

173

TO THE

LIGHT HOUSE

~ ** * nu

Labour Party, they had gone un r>. t ^
of the ship and were takino- tLi r ° ^ ^
chang-e from poe trv to nnlV bcarin gs; the

«^t ; so Mr. Banfes

off, while the others stn /i Wejt

Ramsay going upstairs i n °lh at M *

Where, Lily wondered was j ° ake '

Not that she did in 4 , ^ g ° lng 80 ^

indeed rather slowly She fT ^ J Urry; s!lewe,lt
for a moment to sLd , n ^ atherincIined i^
and pick out one

mattered; to detach ,v. n ^’ the thing that ■■

of all the emotions and ^ ° g; cIeanit

and so hold it before her "anlfb^ ° f ^
tribunal where, rano-ed ok 5 . bring jt to the

judges she had set up to dZcide th^T ^
it good, is it bad, is it rio-ht ^ ^ Is

are we going to? an d <5 ° r Wron § ? Where

hsrKl/afttrthtjhMj;^

“’-rs™

her position. Jp er , , e P ^ er to stabilise

were still. The e tn?h d ^ WaS <*“*>*•• they

movement. All must K * §" IVen her a sense of

11 be m orrlpr cl

that right and that right she th ? C - ® Ust ^ et
approving of the dignity of the ° U f htj irisensi %
now again of the sun k Iees stl dnesSj an d
beak of a ship up W* ”/*«• (>*« the

I?4 . p a wave) of the elm branches as

THE WINDOW

the wind raised them. For it was windy (she
stood a moment to look out). It was wmdy, so
that the leaves now and then brushed open a star,
and the stars themselves seemed to be shaking
and darting light and trying to flash out between
the edges of the leaves. Yes, that was done then,
accomplished; and as with all things done
become solemn. Now one thought of it, cleared
of chatter and emotion, it seemed always to have
been, only was shown now, and so being shown
struck everything into stability. They would,
she thought, going on again, however long they
lived, come back to this night; this moon; this
wind; this house: and to her too. It flattered her,
where she was most susceptible of flattery, to
think how, wound about in their hearts, however
long they lived she would be woven; and this,
and this, and this, she thought, going upstairs,
laughing, but affectionately, at the sofa on the
landing (her mother’s) at the rocking-chair ( er
father’s); at the map of the Hebrides. A t a
would be revived again in the lives of Pau an
Minta; “ the Rayleys ’’—she tried the new name
over; and she felt, with her hand on the nursery
door, that community of feeling with other peop e
which emotion gives as if the walls of partition
become so thin that practically (the feeling was one
of relief and happiness) it was all one stream, an^

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

chairs, tables, maps, were hers, were theirs, it did
not matter whose, and Paul and Minta would

carry it on when she was dead.

She turned the handle, firmly, lest it should
squeak, and went in, pursing her lips slightly, as *
if to remind herself that she must not speak aloud.

But directly she came in she saw, with annoyance,
that the precaution was not needed. The children
were not asleep. It was most annoying. Mildred
should be more careful. There was James wide
awake and Cam sitting bolt upright, and Mildred
out of bed in her bare feet, and it was almost
eleven and they were all talking. What was the 1
matter? It was that horrid skull again. She had i
told Mildred to move it, but Mildred, of course, | ^
had forgotten, and now there was Cam wide
awake and James wide awake quarrelling when
they ought to have been asleep hours ago. What
had possessed Edward to send them this horrid
skull? She had been so foolish as to let them nail ]

it up there. It was nailed fast, Mildred said, and >

Cam couldn’t go to sleep with it in the room, and
James screamed if she touched it.

Then Cam must go to sleep (it had great horns
said Cam—) must go to sleep and dream of lovely- |
palaces, said Mrs. Ramsay, sitting down on the ' :
bed by her side. She could see the horns, Cam j
said, all over the room. It was true. Wherever

l 7 6 hr

THE WINDOW

they put the light (and James could not sleep
without a light) there was always a shadow some-

where,

“ But think, Cam, it’s only an old pig,” said
Mrs. Ramsay, “ a nice black pig like the pigs at
the farm.” But Cam thought it was a horrid
thing, branching at her all over the room.

“ Well then,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “ we will
cover it up,” and they all watched her go to the
chest of drawers, and open the little drawers
quickly one after another, and not seeing anything
that would do, she quickly took her own shawl off
and wound it round the skull, round and round
and round, and then shg came back to Cam and
laid her head almost flat on the pillow beside
Cam’s and said how lovely it looked now; how
the fairies would love it; it was like a bird’s nest;
it was like a beautiful mountain such as she
had seen abroad, with valleys and flowers and
bells ringing and birds singing and little goats
and antelopes . . . She could see the words
echoing as she spoke them rhythmically in Cam s
mind, and Cam was repeating after her how it
was like a mountain, a bird’s nest, a garden, and
there were little antelopes, and her eyes were
opening and shutting, and Mrs. Ramsay went
on saying still more monotonously, and more
I rhythmically and more nonsensically, how she

177

M

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

must shut her eyes and go to sleep and dream of
mountains and valleys and stars falling and parrots
and antelopes and gardens, and everything lovely,
she said, raising her head very slowly and speaking
more and more mechanically, until she sat upright
and saw that Cam was asleep.

Now, she whispered, crossing over to his bed,
James must go to sleep too, for see, she said, the
boar’s skull was still there; they had not touched
it; they had done just what he wanted; it was
there quite unhurt. He made sure that the skull
was still there under the shawl. But he wanted
to ask her something more. Would they go to
the Lighthouse to-morrow?

No, not to-morrow, she said, but soon, she
promised him; the next fine day. He was very
good. He lay down. She covered him up. But
he would never forget, she knew, and she felt
angry with Charles Tansley, with her husband,
and with herself, for she had raised his hopes.
Then feeling for her shawl and remembering that
she had wrapped it round the boar’s skull, she got
up, and pulled the window down another inch or _
two, and heard the wind, and got a breath of tl. j
perfectly indifferent chill night air and murmurei
good-night to Mildred and left the room and lei
the tongue of the door slowly lengthen in the lock
and went out.

178

THE WINDOW

She hoped he would not bang his books on the
floor above their heads, she thought, still thinking
how annoying Charles Tansley was. For neither
of them slept well; they were excitable children,
and since he said things like that about the Light¬
house, it seemed to her likely that he would knock
a pile of books over, just as they were going to
sleep, clumsily sweeping them off the table with
his elbow. For she supposed that he had gone
upstairs to work. Yet he looked so desolate; yet
she would feel relieved when he went; yet she
would see that he was better treated to-morrow;
yet he was admirable with her husband; yet his
manners certainly wanted improving; yet she
liked his laugh—thinking this, as she came down¬
stairs, she noticed that she could now see the moon
itself through the staircase window—the yellow
harvest moon—and turned, and they saw her,
standing above them on the stairs.

“ That’s my mother/' thought Prue. Yes;
Minta should look at her; Paul Rayley should
look at her. That is the thing itself, she felt, as
if there were only one person like that in the
world; her mother. And, from having been quite
grown up, a moment before, talking with the
others, she became a child again, and what they
had been doing was a game, and would, her
mother sanction their game, or condemn it, she

179

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

wondered. And thinking what a chance it was
for Minta and Paul and Lily to see her, and
feeling what an extraordinary stroke of fortune it
was for her to have her, and how she would never
grow up and never leave home, she said, like a child,
“We thought of going down to the beach to
watch the waves.”

Instantly, for no reason at all, Mrs. Ramsay
became like a girl of twenty, full of gaiety. A
mood of revelry suddenly took possession of her.
Of course they must go; of course they must go,
she cried, laughing; and running down the last
three or four steps quickly, she began turning
from one to the other and laughing and drawing
Minta’s wrap round her and saying she only
wished she could come too, and would they be
very late, and had any of them got a watch?

“ Yes, Paul has,” said Minta. Paul slipped a
beautiful gold watch out of a little wash-leather
case to show her. And as he held it in the palm
of his hand before her, he felt “ She knows all
about it. I need not say anything.” He was
saying to her as he showed her the watch, “I’ve
done it, Mrs. Ramsay. I owe it all to you.” An^\
seeing the gold watch lying in his hand, Mrs\
Ramsay felt, How extraordinarily lucky Minta^
is! She is marrying a man who has a gold watch
in a wash-leather bag!

180

THE WINDOW

“ How I wish I could come with you! ” she
cried. But she was withheld by something so
strong that she never even thought of asking
herself what it was. Of course it was impossible
for her to go with them. But she would have
liked to go, had it not been for the other thing,
and tickled by the absurdity of her thought (how
lucky to marry a man with a wash-leather bag for
his watch) she went with a smile on her lips into
the other room, where her husband sat reading.

19

Of course, she said to herself, coming into the
room, she had to come here to get something
she wanted. First she wanted to sit down in a
particular chair under a particular lamp. But she
wanted something more, though she did not know,
could not think what it was that she wanted. She
looked at her husband (taking up her stocking and
beginning to knit), and saw that he did not want
to be interrupted—that was clear. He was
reading something that moved him very much.
He was half smiling and then she knew he was
controlling his emotion. He was tossing the pages
over. He was acting it—perhaps he was thinking
himself the person in the book. She wondered
what book it was. Oh, it was one of old Sir

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Walter’s she saw, adjusting the shade of her lamp
so that the light fell on her knitting. For Charles
Tansley had been saying (she looked up as if she
expected to hear the crash of books on the floor
above) had been saying that people don’t read

“tu i m ° r f' Then ber husband thought
That s what they’ll say of me so he went and

got one of those books. And if he came to the
conclusion That’s true ” what Charles Tansley

sef’that T Uld t ab ° Ut SC0tt < She couI d

see that he was weighing, considering, putting

self W H 1 31 V hS rCad ^ BUt n0t ab ° Ut him_

selt. He was always uneasy about himself. That
roubJed her. He would always be worrying
about his own books—will they be read, are they
good, why aren’t they better, what do people

think of me? Not liking to think of him so and

wondering if they had guessed at dinner why he

tme l T: irHtable When tile ? talked about

“ Wh° WOnderin g if children

Tut anT /, ng , at f at ’ Sh£ tWitChGd the s t°cking
out and all the fine gravings came drawn with

she sr!TfTvV h ° Ut her HPS and f ° rehead ’ and
she grew still hke a tree which has been tossing

and quivering and now, when the breeze falls
settles, leaf by leaf, into quiet. ’

It didn’t matter, any of it, she thought A
great man, a great book, fame-who could teUf

THE WINDOW

?

She kneijy nothing about it. But it was his way
with him! his truthfulness—for instance at dinner
she had |been thinking quite instinctively, If only
he woul(d speak! She had complete trust in him.
And dismissing all this, as one passes in diving
now a (weed, now a straw, now a bubble, she felt
again, sinking deeper, as she had felt in the hall
when the others were talking, There is something
I want—something I have come to get, and she
fell deeper and deeper without knowing quite
what it was, with her eyes closed. And she waited
a little, knitting, wondering, and slowly those
words they had said at dinner, “ the China rose is
all abloom and buzzing with the honey bee,” began
washing from side to side of her mind rhythmically,
and as they washed, words, like little shaded
lights, one red, one blue, one yellow, lit up in the
dark of her mind, and seemed leaving their
perches up there to fly across and across, or to
cry out and to be echoed; so she turned and felt
on the table beside her for a book.

And all the lives we ever lived

And all the lives to be.

Are full of trees and changing leaves,

she murmured, sticking her needles into the
stocking. And she opened the book and began
reading here and there at random, and as she did

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

so she felt that she was climbing backwards
upwards, shoving her way up under petals that
curved over her, so that she only kne-gv this is
white, or this is red. She did not knowfi at first
what the words meant at all. y

Steer, hither steer your winged pines, all beaten Mariners

she read and turned the page, swinging {herself,
zigzagging this way and that, from one . a jine to
another as from one branch to another, fron-gi one
red and white flower to another, until a '{-little
sound roused her—her husband slappingy his
thighs. Their eyes met for a second; but tphey
did not want to speak to each other. They haft"' t
nothing to say, but something seemed, neverthe- \ '
less, to go from him to her. It was the life, it was
the power of it, it was the tremendous humour,
she knew, that made him slap his thighs. Don’t
interrupt me, he seemed to be saying, don’t say
anything; just sit there. And he went on reading.

His lips twitched. It filled him. It fortified him.

He clean forgot all the little rubs and digs of the
evening, and how it bored him unutterably to sit
still while people ate and drank interminably, and
his being so irritable with his wife and so touchy
and minding when they passed his books over as
if they didn’t exist at all. But now, he felt, it
didn’t matter a damn who reached Z (if thought
184

THE WINDOW

Ian like an alphabet from A to Z). Somebody
would reach it—if not he, then another. This
■ man’s strength and sanity, his feeling for straight¬
forward simple things, these fishermen, the poor
old crazed creature in Mucklebackit’s cottage
made him feel so vigorous, so relieved of some¬
thing fchat he felt roused and triumphant and could
not choke back his tears. Raising the book a
little ti.o hide his face he let them tall and shook
his head from side to side and forgot himself
completely (but not one or two reflections about
moralfity and French novels and English novels
and Secott’s hands being tied but his view perhaps
beingf as true as the other view) forgot his own
bothers and failures completely in poor Steenie s
drcge ping and Mucklebackit’s sorrow (that was
Scott at his best) and the astonishing delight and
feelin ,g of vigour that it gave him.

Vv T ell, let them improve upon that, he thought
as hep finished the chapter. He felt that he had
beeih arguing with somebody, and had got the
better of him. They could not improve upon
tha ty-whatever they might say; and his own
position became more secure. The lovers were
fiddlesticks, he thought, collecting it all in his
mir^id again. That’s fiddlesticks, that s first-rate,
he jthought, putting one thing beside another.
Bui}- he must read it again. He could not remem-

185

ills

ims

ber the whole shape of the thing. He* had to
keep his judgement in suspense. So he returned
to the ether thought—if young men did wot cure
tor tn:s, naturally they did not care for him
eitner. One ought not to complain, thong ht Mr.
Ramsay, trying to stifle his desire to co mplain
to his wife that young men did not admir e him.
But he was determined; he would not both er her
again. Here he looked at her reading. She
looked very peaceful, reading. He liked to : think
that every one had taken themselves off ant'd that
he and she were alone. The whole of life dM not
consist in going to bed with a woman, he thought,
returning to Scott and Balzac, to the English
novel and the French novel. V

Mrs. Ramsay raised her head and like a p< if-son
in a light sleep seemed to say that if he w 3 anted
her to wake she would, she really would , but
otherwise, might she go on sleeping, just a f ’ little
longer, just a little longer? She was climbin|g up
those branches, this way and that, laying hand^s on
one flower and then another. <

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose, *

she read, and so reading she was ascending, (she
felt, on to the top, on to the summit, tflow
satisfying! How restful! All the odds and eWs
of the day stuck to this magnet; her mind ’felt
swept, felt clean. And then there it was, suddenly

THE WINDOW

entire shaped in her hands, beautiful and reason¬
able, clear and complete, the essence sucked out
of life and held rounded here—the sonnet.

But she was becoming conscious of her
husband looking at her. He was smiling at her,
quizzically, as if he were ridiculing her gently
for being asleep in broad daylight, but at the same
time he was thinking, Go on reading. You don’t
look sad now, he thought. And he wondered
what she was reading, and exaggerated her
ignorance, her simplicity, for he liked to think that
she was not clever, not book-learned at all. He
wondered if she understood what she was reading.
Probably not, he thought. She was astonishingly
beautiful. Her beauty seemed to him, if that
were possible, to increase.

Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,

As with your shadow I with these did play,

she finished.

“Well? ” she said, echoing his smile dreamily,
looking up from her book.

As with your shadow I with these did play,

she murmured putting the book on the table.

What had happened she wondered, as she took
up her knitting, since she had last seen him alone?
She remembered dressing, and seeing the moon;
Andrew holding his plate too high at dinner;

187

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

being depressed by something William had said;
the birds in the trees; the sofa on the landing;
the children being awake; Charles Tansley waking
them with his books falling—oh no, that she had
invented; and Paul having a wash-leather case for
his watch. Which should she tell him about?

“ They’re engaged,” she said, beginning to
knit, “ Paul and Minta.”

“ So I guessed,” he said. There was nothing
very much to be said about it. Her mind was still
going up and down, up and down with the poetry;
he was still feeling very vigorous, very forthright,
after reading about Steenie’s funeral. So they sat
silent. Then she became aware that she wanted
him to say something.

Anything, anything, she thought, going on
with her knitting. Anything will do.

How nice it would be to marry a man with a
wash-leather bag for his watch,” she said, for that
was the sort of joke they had together.

He snorted. He felt about this engagement
as he always felt about any engagement; the girl
is much too good for that young man. Slowly it
came into her head, why is it then that one wants
people to marry? What was the value, the
meaning of things? (Every word they said now
would be true.) Do say something, she thought,
wishing only to hear his voice. For the shadow,
r 8 8

THE WINDOW

the thing folding them in was beginning, she felt,
to close round her again. Say anything, she
begged, looking at him, as if for help.

He was silent, swinging the compass on his
watch-chain to and fro, and thinking of Scott’s
novels and Balzac’s novels. But through the
crepuscular walls of their intimacy, for they were
drawing together, involuntarily, coming side by
side, quite close, she could feel his mind like a
raised hand shadowing her mind; and he was
beginning now that her thoughts took a turn he
disliked—towards this 44 pessimism ” as he called
it—to fidget, though he said nothing, raising his
hand to his forehead, twisting a lock of hair,
letting it fall again.

44 You won’t finish that stocking to-night,”
he said, pointing to her stocking. That was what
she wanted—the asperity in his voice reproving
her. If he says it’s wrong to be pessimistic
probably it is wrong, she thought; the marriage
will turn out all right.

44 No,” she said, flattening the stocking out
upon her knee, 44 I shan’t finish it.”

And what then? For she felt that he was still
looking at her, but that his look had changed. He
wanted something—wanted the thing she always
found it so difficult to give him; wanted her to
tell him that she loved him. And that, no, she

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

could not do. He found talking so much easier
than she did. He could say things—she never
could. So naturally it was always he that said the
things, and then for some reason he would mind
this suddenly, and would reproach her. A heart¬
less woman he called her; she never told him that
she loved him. But it was not so—it was not so.
It was only that she never could say what she felt.
Was there no crumb on his coat? Nothing she
could do for him? Getting up she stood at the
window with the reddish-brown stocking in her
hands, partly to turn away from him, partly because
she did not mind looking now, with him watching, at
the Lighthouse. For she knew that he had turned
his head as she turned; he was watchi ng her. She
knew that he was thinking, You are more beautiful
than ever. And she felt herself very beautiful.
Will you not tell me just for once that you love me?
He was thinking that, for he was roused, what with
Minta and his book, and its being the end of the
day and their having quarrelled about going to the
Lighthouse. But she could not do it; she could
not say it. Then, knowing that he was watching
her,. instead of saying any thing she turned,
holding her stocking, and looked at him. And
as she looked at him she began to smile, for
though she had not said a word, he knew, of

course he knew, that she loved him. He could
190

THE WINDOW

not deny it. And smiling she looked out of the
window and said (thinking to herself. Nothing on
earth can equal this happiness)—

“ Yes, you were right. It’s going to be wet
to-morrow.” She had not said it, but he knew it.
And she looked at him smiling. For she had
triumphed again.

II

TIME PASSES

N

I

44 Well, we must wait for the future to show,”
said Mr. Bankes, coming in from the terrace,

44 It’s almost too dark to see,” said Andrew,
coming up from the beach.

44 One can hardly tell which is the sea and
which is the land,” said Prue.

44 Do we leave that light burning? ” said Lily
as they took their coats off* indoors.

44 No,” said Prue, 44 not if everyone’s in.”

44 Andrew,” she called back, 44 just put out the
light in the hall.”

One by one the lamps were all extinguished,
except that Mr. Carmichael, who liked to lie
awake a little reading Virgil, kept his candle
burning rather longer than the rest.

So with the lamps all put out, the moon sunk,
and a thin rain drumming on the roof a down¬
pouring of immense darkness began. Nothing, it

195

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

seemed, could survive the flood, the profusion of
darkness which, creeping in at keyholes and
crevices, stole round window blinds, came into
bedrooms, swallowed up here a jug and basin,
there a bowl of red and yellow dahlias, there the
sharp edges and firm bulk of a chest of drawers.

Not only was furniture confounded; there was
scarcely anything left of body or mind by which
one could say “ This is he ” or “ This is she.”
Sometimes a hand was raised as if to clutch
something or ward off something, or somebody
groaned, or somebody laughed aloud as if sharing
a joke with nothingness.

Nothing stirred in the drawing-room or in the
dining-room or on the staircase. Only through :
the rusty hinges and swollen sea-moistened wood¬
work certain airs, detached from the body of the j
wind (the house was ramshackle after all) crept i
round corners and ventured indoors. Almost one j
might imagine them, as they entered the drawing- i
room, questioning and wondering, toying with the I
flap of hanging wall-paper, asking, would it hang j
much longer, when would it fall? Then smoothly j
brushing the walls, they passed on musingly as if
asking the red and yellow roses on the wall-paper
whether they would fade, and questioning (gently,
for there was time at their disposal) the torn letters
in the wastepaper basket, the flowers, the books,

196 l

TIME PASSES

all of which were now open to them and asking,
Were they allies? Were they enemies? How long
would they endure?

So some random light directing them from
an uncovered star, or wandering ship, or the
Lighthouse even, with its pale footfall upon stair
and mat, the little airs mounted the staircase and
nosed round bedroom doors. But here surely, they
must cease. Whatever else may perish and dis¬
appear what lies here is steadfast. Here one might
say to those sliding lights, those fumbling airs, that
breathe and bend over the bed itself, here you can
neither touch nor destroy. Upon which, wearily,
ghostiily, as if they had feather-light fingers and
the light persistency of feathers, they would look,
once, on the shut eyes and the loosely clasping
fingers, and fold their garments wearily and dis¬
appear. And so, nosing, rubbing, they went to
the window on the staircase, to the servants’
bedrooms, to the boxes in the attics; descending,
blanched the apples on the dining-room table,
fumbled the petals of roses, tried the picture on
the easel, brushed the mat and blew a little sand
along the floor. At length, desisting, all ceased
together, gathered together, all sighed together;
all together gave off an aimless gust of lamentation
to which some door in the kitchen replied; swung
wide; admitted nothing; and slammed to.

197

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE ^

[Here Mr. Carmichael, who was reading
Virgil, blew out his candle. It was past midnight.]

3

But what after all is one night? A short space,
especially when the darkness dims so soon, and
so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green
quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the
wave. Night, however, succeeds to night. I he
winter holds a pack of them in store and deals
them equally, evenly, with indefatigable fingers.
They lengthen; they darken. Some of them
hold aloft clear planets, plates of brightness. The
autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on t e
flash of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of cool -
cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages
describe death in battle and how bones bleach and
burn far away in Indian sands. The autumn trees
o-leam in the yellow moonlight, in the light of
harvest moons, the light which mellows the energy
of labour, and smooths the stubble, and brings the
wave lapping blue to the shore.

It seemed now as if, touched by human
penitence and all its toil, divine goodness had
parted the curtain and displayed behind it, single,
distinct, the hare erect; the wave falling; the boat
rocking, which, did we deserve them, should be

198

TIME PASSES

ours always. But alas, divine goodness, twitching
the cord, draws the curtain; it does not please
him; he covers his treasures in a drench of hail,
and so breaks them, so confuses them that it
seems impossible that their calm should ever
return or that we should ever compose from their
fragments a perfect whole or read in the littered
pieces the clear words of truth. For our penitence
deserves a glimpse only; our toil respite only.

The nights now are full of wind and destruc¬
tion; the trees plunge and bend and their leaves
fly helter skelter until the lawn is plastered with
them and they lie packed in gutters and choke
rain pipes and scatter damp paths. Also the sea
tosses itself and breaks itself, and should any
sleeper fancying that he might find on the beach
an answer to his doubts, a sharer of his solitude,
throw off his bedclothes and go down by himself
to walk on the sand, no image with semblance of
serving and divine promptitude comes readily to
hand bringing the night to order and making the
world reflect the compass of the soul. The hand
dwindles in his hand; the voice bellows in his ear.
Almost it would appear that it is useless in such
confusion to ask the night those questions as to
what, and why, and wherefore, which tempt the
sleeper from his bed to seek an answer.

[Mr. Ramsay stumbling along a passage

199

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

stretched his arms out one dark morning, but,
Mrs. Ramsay having died rather suddenly the
night before, he stretched his arms out. They
remained empty.]

4

So with the house empty and the doors locked
and the mattresses rolled round, those stray airs,
advance guards of great armies, blustered in,
brushed bare boards, nibbled and fanned, met
nothing in bedroom or drawing-room that wholly
resisted them but only hangings that flapped,
wood that creaked, the bare legs of tables, sauce¬
pans and china already furred, tarnished, cracked.
What people had shed and left—a pair of shoes,
a shooting cap, some faded skirts and coats in
wardrobes—those alone kept the human shape
and in the emptiness indicated how once they were
filled and animated; how once hands were busy
with hooks and buttons; how once the Iooking-
glass had held a face; had held a world hollowed
out in which a figure turned, a hand flashed, the
door opened, in came children rushing and
tumbling; and went out again. Now, day after
day, light turned, like a flower reflected in water,
its clear image on the wall opposite. Only the
shadows of the trees, flourishing in the wind,
made obeisance on the wall, and for a moment
soo

TIME PASSES

darkened the pool in which light reflected itself;
or birds, flying, made a soft spot flutter slowly
across the bedroom floor.

So loveliness reigned and stillness, and together
made the shape of loveliness itself, a form from
which life had parted; solitary like a pool at
evening, far distant, seen from a train window,
vanishing so quickly that the pool, pale in the
evening, is scarcely robbed of its solitude, though
once seen. Loveliness and stillness clasped hands
in the bedroom, and among the shrouded jugs
and sheeted chairs even the prying of the wind,
and the soft nose of the clammy sea airs, rubbing,
snuffling, iterating, and reiterating their questions
—“ Will you fade? Will you perish? ”—scarcely
disturbed the peace, the indifference, the air of
pure integrity, as if the question they asked
scarcely needed that they should answer: we
remain.

Nothing it seemed could break that image,
corrupt that innocence, or disturb the swaying
mantle of silence which, week after week, in the
empty room, wove into itself the falling cries of
birds, ships hooting, the drone and hum of the
fields, a dog’s bark, a man’s shout, and folded
them round the house in silence. Once only a
board sprang on the landing; once in the middle
of the night with a roar, with a rupture, as after

201

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

centuries of quiescence, a rock rends itself from
the mountain and hurtles crashing into the valley,
one fold of the shawl loosened and swung to
and fro. Then again peace descended; and the
shadow wavered; light bent to its own image
in adoration on the bedroom wall; when Mrs.
McNab, tearing the veil of silence with hands
that had stood in the wash-tub, grinding it with
boots that had crunched the shingle, came as
directed to open all windows, and dust the
bedrooms.

5

As she lurched (for she rolled like a ship at sea)
and leered (for her eyes fell on nothing directly,
but with a sidelong glance that deprecated the
scorn and anger of the world—she was witless,
she knew it), as she clutched the banisters and
hauled herself upstairs and rolled from room to
room, she sang. Rubbing the glass of the long
looking-glass and leering sideways at her swinging
figure a sound issued from her lips—something
that had been gay twenty years before on the
stage perhaps, had been hummed and danced to,
but now, coming from the toothless, bonneted, 5
care- ^ a ^^ n S woman, was robbed of meaning, was
like the voice of witlessness, humour, persistency
itself, trodden down but springing up again, so

TIME PASSES

that as she lurched, dusting, wiping, she seemed
to say how it was one long sorrow and trouble,
how it was getting up and going to bed again,
and bringing things out and putting them away
again. It was not easy or snug this world she had
known for close on seventy years. Bowed down
she was with weariness. How long, she asked,
creaking and groaning on her knees under the
bed, dusting the boards, how long shall it endure?
but hobbled to her feet again, pulled herself up,
and again with her sidelong leer which slipped and
turned aside even from her own face, and her own
sorrows, stood and gaped in the glass, aimlessly
s milin g, and began again the old amble and
hobble, taking up mats, putting down china,
looking sideways in the glass, as if, after all, she
had her consolations, as if indeed there twined
about her dirge some incorrigible hope. Visions
of joy there must have been at the wash-tub, say
with her children (yet two had been base-born
and one had deserted her), at the public-house,
drinking; turning over scraps in her drawers.
Some cleavage of the dark there must have been,
some channel in the depths of obscurity through
which light enough issued to twist her face grin¬
ning in the glass and make her, turning to her
job again, mumble out the old music hall song.
Meanwhile the mystic, the visionary, walked the

203

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

beach, stirred a puddle, looked at a stone, and
asked themselves “ What am I? ” “ What is this? ”
and suddenly an answer was vouchsafed them (what
it was they could not say): so that they were warm in
the frost and had comfort in the desert. But Mrs.
McNab continued to drink and gossip as before.

6

The spring without a leaf to toss, bare and
bright like a virgin fierce in her chastity, scornful
in her purity, was laid out on fields wide-eyed and
watchful and entirely careless of what was done or
thought by the beholders.

[Prue Ramsay, leaning on her father’s arm, was
given in marriage that May. What, people said,
could have been more fitting? And, they added,
how beautiful she looked!]

As summer neared, as the evenings lengthened,
there came to the wakeful, the hopeful, walking
the beach, stirring the pool, imaginations of the
strangest kind—of flesh turned to atoms which
drove before the wind, of stars flashing in their
hearts, of cliff, sea, cloud, and sky brought pur¬
posely together to assemble outwardly the scattered
parts of the vision within. In those mirrors, the
minds of men, in those pools of uneasy water, in
which clouds for ever turn and shadows form,
204

TIME PASSES

dreams persisted, and it was impossible to resiktfhe
strange intimation which every gull, flower, tree,
man and woman, and the white earth itself seemed
to declare (but if questioned at once to withdraw)
that good triumphs, happiness prevails, order
rules; or to resist the extraordinary stimulus to
range hither and thither in search of some absolute
good, some crystal of intensity, remote from the
known pleasures and familiar virtues, something
alien to the processes of domestic life, single, hard,
bright, like a diamond in the sand, which would
render the possessor secure. Moreover, softened
and acquiescent, the spring with her bees hum¬
ming and gnats dancing threw her cloak about
her, veiled her eyes, averted her head, and among
passing shadows and flights of small rain seemed
to have taken upon her a knowledge of the sorrows
of mankind.

[Prue Ramsay died that summer in some illness
connected with childbirth, which was indeed a
tragedy, people said. They said nobody deserved
happiness more.]

And now in the heat of summer the wind sent
its spies about the house again. Flies wove a web
in the sunny rooms; weeds that had grown close
to the glass in the night tapped methodically at
the window pane. When darkness fell, the stroke
of the Lighthouse, which had laid itself with such

205

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

authority upon the carpet in the darkness, tracing
its pattern, came now in the softer light of spring
mixed with moonlight gliding gently as if it laid
its caress and lingered stealthily and looked and
came lovingly again. But in the very lull of this
loving caress, as the long stroke leant upon the
bed, the rock was rent asunder; another fold of
the shawl loosened; there it hung, and swayed.
Through the short summer nights and the long
summer days, when the empty rooms seemed to
murmur with the echoes of the fields and the hum
of flies, the long streamer waved gently, swayed
aimlessly; while the sun so striped and barred the
rooms and filled them with yellow haze that Mrs.
McNab, when she broke in and lurched about,
dusting, sweeping, looked like a tropical fish
oaring its way through sun-lanced waters.

But slumber and sleep though it, might there
came later in the summer ominous sounds like the
measured blows of hammers dulled on felt, which,
with their repeated shocks still further loosened
the shawl and cracked the tea-cups. Now and
again some glass tinkled in the cupboard as if a
giant voice had shrieked so loud in its agony that
tumblers stood inside a cupboard vibrated too.
Then again silence fell; and then, night after
night, and sometimes in plain mid-day when the
roses were bright and light turned on the wall its
206

TIME PASSES

shape clearly there seemed to drop into this
silence this indifference, this integrity, the thud of
something falling.

[A shell exploded. Twenty or thirty young
men were blown up in France, among them
Andrew Ramsay, whose death, mercifully, was
instantaneous.]

At that season those who had gone down to
pace the beach and ask of the sea and sky what
message they reported or what vision they
affirmed had to consider among the usual tokens
of divine bounty — the sunset on the sea, the
pallor of dawn, the moon rising, fishing-boats
against the moon, and children pelting each
other with handfuls of grass,—something out
of harmony with this jocundity, this serenity.
There was the silent apparition of an ashen-
coloured ship for instance, come, gone; there was
a purplish stain upon the bland surface of the sea
as if something had boiled and bled, invisibly,
beneath. This intrusion into a scene calculated
to stir the most sublime reflections and lead to the
most comfortable conclusions stayed their pacing.
It was difficult blandly to overlook them, to
abolish their significance in the landscape; to
continue, as one walked by the sea, to marvel how
beauty outside mirrored beauty within.

Did Nature supplement what man advanced?

207

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Did she complete what he began? With equal
complacence she saw his misery, condoned his
meanness, and acquiesced in his torture. That
dream, then, of sharing, completing, finding in
solitude on the beach an answer, was but a reflec¬
tion in a mirror, and the mirror itself was but
the surface glassiness which forms in quiescence
when the nobler powers sleep beneath? Impatient,
despairing yet loth to go (for beauty offers her
lures, has her consolations), to pace the beach was
impossible; contemplation was unendurable; the
mirror was broken.

[Mr. Carmichael brought out a volume of
poems that spring, which had an unexpected
success. The war, people said, had revived their
interest in poetry.]

7

Night after night, summer and winter, the
torment of storms, the arrow-like stillness of fine
weather, held their court without interference.
Listening (had there been any one to listen) from
the upper rooms of the empty house only gigantic
chaos streaked with lightning could have been
heard tumbling and tossing, as the winds and
waves disported themselves like the amorphous
bulks of leviathans whose brows are pierced by
no light of reason, and mounted one on top of
208

time passes

another, and lunged and plunged, in the darkness
or the daylight (for night and day, month and
year ran shapelessly together) in idiot games,
until it seemed as if the universe were battling
and tumbling, in brute confusion and wanton
lust aimlessly by itself.

In spring the garden urns, casually filled with
wind-blown plants, were gay as ever. Violets
came and daffodils. But the stillness and the
brightness of the day were as strange as the chaos
and tumult of night, with the trees standing there,
and the flowers standing there, looking before
them, looking up, yet beholding nothing, eyeless,
and thus terrible.

8

Thinking no harm, for the family would not
come, never again, some said, and the house would
be sold at Michaelmas perhaps, Mrs. McNab
stooped and picked a bunch of flowers to take
home with her. She laid them on the table
while she dusted. She was fond of flowers. It
was a pity to let them waste. Suppose the house
were sold (she stood arms akimbo in front of the
looking-glass) it would want seeing to—it would.
There it had stood all these years without a soul
in it. The books and things were mouldy, for,
what with the war and help being hard to get,
o 209

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

the house had not been cleaned as she could have'
wished. It was beyond one person’s strength
to get it straight now. She was too old. Her
legs pained her. All those books needed to be
laid out on the grass in the sun; there was plaster
fallen in the hall; the rain-pipe had blocked
over the study window and let the water in; the
carpet was ruined quite. But people should come
themselves; they should have sent somebody
down to see. For there were clothes in the cup¬
boards; they had left clothes in all the bedrooms.
What was she to do with them? They had the
moth in them—Mrs. Ramsay’s things. Poor
ladyl She would never want them again. She ' 4
was dead, they said; years ago, in London. I
There was the old grey cloak she wore gardening £ r
(Mrs. McNab fingered it.) She could see her, t/
as she came up the drive with the washing,
stooping over her flowers (the garden was a
pitiful sight now, all run to riot, and rabbits
scuttling at you out of the beds)—she could see
her with one of the children by her in that grey
cloak. There were boots and shoes; and a brush
and comb left on the dressing-table, for all the
world as if she expected to come back to-morrow.

(She had died very sudden at the end, they said.)

And once they had been coming, but had put off
coming, what with the war, and travel being so
210 ,

TIME PASSES

difficult these days; they had never come all these
years; just sent her money; but never wrote, never
came, and expected to find things as they had left
them, ah dear! Why the dressing-table drawers
were full of things (she pulled them open), hand¬
kerchiefs, bits of ribbon. Yes, she could see Mrs.
Ramsay as she came up the drive with the washing.

“ Good-evening, Mrs. McNab,” she would say.

She had a pleasant way with her. The girls
all liked her. But dear, many things had changed
since then (she shut the drawer); many families
had lost their dearest. So she was dead; and
Mr. Andrew killed; and Miss Prue dead too,
they said, with her first baby; but every one had
lost some one these years. Prices had gone up
shamefully, and didn’t come down again neither.
She could well remember her in her grey cloak.

“ Good-evening, Mrs. McNab,” she said, and
told cook to keep a plate of milk soup for her—
quite thought she wanted it, carrying that heavy
basket all the way up from town. She could see
her now, stooping over her flowers; (and faint and
flickering, like a yellow beam or the circle at the
end of a telescope, a lady in a grey cloak, stooping
over her flowers, went wandering over the bed¬
room wall, up the dressing-table, across the wash-
stand, as Mrs. McNab hobbled and ambled,
dusting, straightening).

21 I

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

And cook’s name now? Mildred? Marian?"^
—some name like that. Ah, she had forgotten
—she did forget things. Fiery, like all red-
haired women. Many a laugh they had had.

She was always welcome in the kitchen. She
made them laugh, she did. Things were better
then than now.

She sighed; there was too much work for one
woman. She wagged her head this side and that.
This had been the nursery. Why, it was all
damp in here; the plaster was falling. What¬
ever did they want to hang a beast’s skull there?
gone mouldy too. And rats in all the attics.k
The rain came in. But they never sent; never m , 1
came. Some of the locks had gone, so the doors V
banged.. She didn’t like to be up here at dusk - "
alone neither. It was too much for one woman,
too much, too much. She creaked, she moaned’

She banged the door. She turned the key in the
lock, and left the house shut up, locked, alone.

The house was left; the house was deserted.
It was left like a shell on a sandhill to fill with
dry salt grains now that life had left it. The long
night seemed to have set in; the trifling airs,
nibbling, the clammy breaths, fumbling, seemed

TIME PASSES

to have triumphed. The saucepan had rusted
and the mat decayed. Toads had nosed their
way in. Idly, aimlessly, the swaying shawl
swung to and fro. A thistle thrust Itself between
the tiles in the larder. The swallows nested In
the drawing-room; the floor was strewn with
straw; the plaster fell in shovelfuls; rafters were
laid bare; rats carried off this and that to gnaw
behind the wainscots. Tortoise-shell butterflies
burst from the chrysalis and pattered their life
out on the window-pane. Poppies sowed them¬
selves among the dahlias; the lawn waved with
long grass; giant artichokes towered among
roses; a fringed carnation flowered among the
cabbages; while the gentle tapping of a weed at
the window had become, on winters’ nights, a
drumming from sturdy trees and thorned briars
which made the whole room green in summer.

What power could now prevent the fertility,
the insensibility of nature? Mrs. McNab’s dream
of a lady, of a child, of a plate of milk soup?
It had wavered over the walls like a spot of sun¬
light and vanished. She had locked the door; she
had gone. It was beyond the strength of one
woman, she said. They never sent. They never
wrote. There were things up there rotting in the
drawers—it was a shame to leave them so, she
said. The place was gone to rack and ruin. Only

213

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE ^

the Lighthouse beam entered the rooms for a
moment, sent its sudden stare over bed and wall
in the darkness of winter, looked with equanimity
at the thistle and the swallow, the rat and the
straw. Nothing now withstood them; nothing
said no to them. Let the wind blow; let the
poppy seed itself and the carnation mate with the
cabbage. Let the swallow build in the drawing-
room, and the thistle thrust aside the tiles, and the
butterfly sun itself on the faded chintz of the arm¬
chairs. Let the broken glass and the china lie
out on the lawn and be tangled over with grass and
wild berries.

For now had come that moment, that hesita-S*
tion when dawn trembles and night pauses, when \
if a feather alight in the scale it will be weighed
down. One feather, and the house, sinking,
falling, would have turned and pitched downwards
to the depths of darkness. In the ruined room,
picnickers would have lit their kettles; lovers
sought shelter there, lying on the bare boards;
and the shepherd stored his dinner on the bricks , 5
and the tramp slept with his coat round him to
ward off. the cold. Then the roof would have
fallen; briars and hemlocks would have blotted
out path, step, and window; would have grown,
unequally but lustily over the mound, until some
trespasser, losing his way, could have told only
2I « £.

TIME PASSES

by a red-hot poker among the nettles, or a scrap
of china in the hemlock, that here once some one
had lived; there had been a house.

If the feather had fallen, if it had tipped the
scale downwards, the whole house would have
plunged to the depths to lie upon the sands of
oblivion. But there was a force working; some¬
thing not highly conscious; something that
leered, something that lurched; something not
inspired to go about its work with dignified ritual
or solemn chanting. Mrs. McNab groaned;
Mrs. Bast creaked. They were old; they were
stiff; their legs ached. They came with their
brooms and pails at last; they got to work. All of
a sudden, would Mrs. McNab see that the house
was ready, one of the young ladies wrote: would
she get this done; would she get that done; all in
a hurry. They might be coming for the summer;
had left everything to the last; expected to find
things as they had left them. Slowly and pain¬
fully, with broom and pail, mopping, scouring,
Mrs. McNab, Mrs. Bast stayed the corruption
and the rot; rescued from the pool of Time that
was fast closing over them now a basin, now a
cupboard; fetched up from oblivion all the
Waverley novels and a tea-set one morning; in
the afternoon restored to sun and air a brass
fender and a set of steel fire-irons. George,

* y-* a o JCy

i JttuUbE

Mrs. Bast s son, caught the rats, and cut the grass
They had the builders. Attended with the creak¬
ing of hinges and the screeching of bolts, the
slamming and banging of damp-swollen wood¬
work, some rusty laborious birth seemed to be
ta mg place, as the women, stooping, rising, groan-
mg, singing, slapped and slammed, upstairs now
now down in the cellars. Oh, they said, the work!

hey drank their tea in the bedroom some-
times or in the study; breaking off work at
mid-day with the smudge on their faces, and their
o d hands c asped and cramped with the broom
hand es. Flopped on chairs they contemplated
now the magnificent conquest over taps and bath;'
now the more arduous, more partial triumph
over long rows of books, black as ravens once
now white-stained, breeding pale mushrooms and
secre mg urtive spiders. Once more, as she felt

mTmZV" Ae teIeSC ° pe fitted itSeIf to

Mrs. McNabs eyes, and in a ring of light she
saw the old gentleman, lean as a Le, Jagg „g
his head, as she came up wit h die wash!™
tJ mg t0 hlmself > sile supposed, on the lawn’

He never noticed her. Some said he was dead-

Ba^didn’tt 6 WaS / ead ' Whlchwa ^- ? Mrs!
Bast didn t know for certain either. The young

gentian was dead. That she was sure Shf

•had read his name in the papers

216

TIME PASSES

There was the cook now, Mildred, Marian,
some such name as that—a red-headed woman,
quick-tempered like all her sort, but kind, too, if
you knew the way with her. Many a laugh they
had had together. She saved a plate of soup for
Maggie; a bite of ham, sometimes; whatever was
over. They lived well in those days. They had
everything they wanted (glibly, jovially, with the
tea hot in her, she unwound her ball of memories,
sitting in the wicker arm-chair by the nursery
fender). There was always plenty doing, people
in the house, twenty staying sometimes, and
washing up till long past midnight.

Mrs. Bast (she had never known them; had
lived in Glasgow at that time) wondered, putting
her cup down, whatever they hung that beast’s
skull there for? Shot in foreign parts no doubt.

It might well be, said Mrs. McNab, wanton¬
ing on with her memories; they had friends in
eastern countries; gentlemen staying there, ladies
in evening dress; she had seen them once through
the dining-room door all sitting at dinner.
Twenty she dared say in all their jewellery, and
she asked to stay help wash up, might be till after
midnight.

Ah, said Mrs. Bast, they’d find it changed.
She leant out of the window. She watched her son
George scything the grass. They might well ask,

2,17

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

what had been done to it? seeing how old Kennedy
was supposed to have charge of it, and then his
leg got so bad after he fell from the cart; and
perhaps then no one for a year, or the better part
of one; and then Davie Macdonald, and seeds
might be sent, but who should say if they were
ever planted? They’d find it changed.

She watched her son scything. He was a great
one for work—one of those quiet ones. Well
they must be getting along with the cupboards,
she supposed. They hauled themselves up.

At last, after days of labour within, of cutting
and digging without, dusters were flicked from
the windows, the windows were shut to, keys were
turned all over the house; the front door was
banged; it was finished.

And now as if the cleaning and the scrubbing
and the scything and the mowing had drowned
it there rose that half-heard melody, that inter¬
mittent music which the ear half catches but
lets fall; a bark, a bleat; irregular, intermittent,
yet somehow related; the hum of an insect, the
tremor of cut grass, dissevered yet somehow
belonging; the jar of a dor beetle, the squeak of a
wheel, loud, low, but mysteriously related; which
the ear strains to bring together and is always on
the verge of harmonising but they are never quite
heard, never fully harmonised, and at last, in the
218

TIME PASSES

evening, one after another the sounds die out,
and the harmony falters, and silence falls. With
the sunset sharpness was lost, and like mist rising,
quiet rose, quiet spread, the wind settled; loosely
the world shook itself down to sleep, darkly here
without a light to it, save what came green suffused
through leaves, or pale on the white flowers by
the window.

[Lily Briscoe had her bag carried up to the
house late one evening in September. Mr.
Carmichael came by the same train.]

io

Then indeed peace had come. Messages of
peace breathed from the sea to the shore. Never
to break its sleep any more, to lull it rather more
deeply to rest and whatever the dreamers dreamt
holily, dreamt wisely, to confirm—what else was
it murmuring—as Lily Briscoe laid her head on
the pillow in the clean still room and heard the sea.
Through the open window the voice of the beauty
of the world came murmuring, too softly to hear
exactly what it said—but what mattered if the
meaning were plain?—entreating the sleepers (the
house was full again; Mrs. Beckwith was staying
there, also Mr. Carmichael), if they would not
actually come down to the beach itself at least to lift

219

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

the blind and look out. They would see then night
flowing down in purple; his head crowned; his
sceptre jewelled; and how in his eyes a child
might look. And if they still faltered (Lily was
tired out with travelling and slept almost at once;
but Mr. Carmichael read a book by candlelight),
if they still said no, that it was vapour this
splendour of his, and the dew had more power
than he, and they preferred sleeping; gently then
without complaint, or argument, the voice would
sing its song. Gently the waves would break
(Lily heard them in her sleep); tenderly the light
fell (it seemed to come through her eyelids).
And it all looked, Mr. Carmichael thought,
shutting his book, falling asleep, much as it used
to look years ago.

Indeed the voice might resume, as the curtains
of dark wrapped themselves over the house, over
Mrs. Beckwith, Mr. Carmichael, and Lily Briscoe
so that they lay with several folds of blackness on
their eyes, why not accept this, be content with
this, acquiesce and resign? The sigh of all the
seas breaking in measure round the isles soothed
them; the night wrapped them; nothing broke
their sleep, until, the birds beginning and the
dawn weaving their thin voices in to its white¬
ness, a cart .grinding, a dog somewhere barking,
the sun lifted the curtains, broke the veil on

TIME PASSES

their eyes, and Lily Briscoe stirring in her sleep
clutched at her blankets as a faller clutches at
the turf on the edge of a cliff. Her eyes opened
wide. Here she was again, she thought, sitting
bolt upright in bed. Awake.

221

Ill

THE LIGHTHOUSE

I

Wiiat does 1<: mean then > w hat can it all mean?
uy Briscoe asked herself, wondering whether,
since she had been left alone, it behoved her to go
to the kitchen to fetch another cup of coffee or
wait here. What does it mean?—a catchword
that was, caught up from some book, fitting her
I t h° u ght loosely, for she could not, this first
morning with the Ramsays, contract her feelings,
could only make a phrase resound to cover the
blankness of her mind until these vapours had
shrunk. For really, what did she feel, come back
after all these. years and Mrs. Ramsay dead?

Nothing, nothing—nothing that she could ex¬
press at all.

She had come late last night when it was all
mysterious, dark. Now she was awake, at her old
place at the breakfast table, but alone. It was
very early too, not yet eight. There was this
expedition—they were going to the Lighthouse,
Mr. Ramsay, Cam, and James. They should
have gone already—they had to catch the tide or

P

225

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

something. And Cam was not ready and James
was not ready and Nancy had forgotten to order
the sandwiches and Mr. Ramsay had lost his
temper and banged out of the room.

“ What’s the use of going now? ” he had
stormed.

Nancy had vanished. There he was, marching
up and down the terrace in a rage. One seemed
to hear doors slamming and voices calling all over
the house. Now Nancy burst in, and asked,
looking round the room, in a queer half dazed,
half desperate way, “ What does one send to
the Lighthouse? ” as if she were forcing her¬
self to do what she despaired of ever being ah’je
to do.

What does one send to the Lighthouse
indeed 1 At any other time Lily could have sug¬
gested reasonably tea, tobacco, newspapers. But
this morning everything seemed so extra¬
ordinarily queer that a question like Nancy’s—
What does one send to the Lighthouse?—opened
doors in one’s mind that went banging and
swinging to and fro and made one keep asking,
in a stupefied gape, What does one send? What
does one do? Why is one sitting here after
all?

Sitting alone (for Nancy went out again)
among the clean cups at the long table she felt
22 6

— a nuuDis

cut off from other people, and able only to go

DtacT'tt" 8 ’ ISking ’ 7” deri "S- T h= house, the
place the mormng, all S e e med strangers to her

She adn nt ^ she ^ ^

, ny mg might happen, and whatever did
happen, a step outside, a voice calling (“ I t ’ s not

cried^ C ^ Pb ° ard; k ’ S ° n tke Ending,” some one

bound 7 ^ if Ae Hnk that usuall 7

bound things together had been cut, and they

floated up here, down there, off, anyhow. How

aimless it was, how chaotic, how unreal it

was, she thought, looking at her empty coffee

cup Mrs. Ramsay dead; Andrew killed; Prue

dead too-repeat it as she might, it roused no

mg m her .And we all get together in a

^d^ I K AlS ° n a m ° rning Hke this > sh e
said, looking out of the window-it was a

beautiful still day.

Suddenly Mr. Ramsay raised his head as he
passed and looked straight at her, with his
distraught wild gaze which was yet so penetrating
as if he saw you, for one second, for the first time’
for ever; and she pretended to drink out of her
empty coffee cup so as to escape him-to escape
his demand on her, to put aside a moment longer
that imperious need. And he shook his head at
her, and strode on (“ Alone ” she heard him say,
Perished she heard him say) and like everv-

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

thing else this strange morning the words
became symbols, wrote themselves all over the
grey-green walls. If only she could put them
together, she felt, write them out in some sentence,
then she would have got at the truth of things'

Old Mr. Carmichael came padding softly in,
fetched his coffee, took his cup and made off to <
sit in the sun. The extraordinary unreality was
frightening; but it was also exciting. Going to j
the Lighthouse. But what does one send to the '
Lighthouse? Perished. Alone. The grey-green 1
light on the wall opposite. The empty places.

Such were some of the parts, but how bring them 1
together? she asked. As if any interruption
would break the frail shape she was building on ,
the table she turned her back to the window lest
Mr. Ramsay should see her. She must escape
somehow, be alone somewhere. Suddenly she ' ■
remembered. When she had sat there last ten
years ago there had been a little sprig or leaf
pattern on the table-cloth, which she had looked 1
at in a moment of revelation. There had been a
problem about a foreground of a picture. Move
the tree to the middle, she had said. She had
never finished that picture. It had been knocking :
about in her mind all these years. She would ;
paint that picture now. Where were her paints, ■.
she wondered? Her paints, yes. She had left ,

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

of England—the Red, the Fair, the Wicked, thT!
Ruthless, she felt how they raged under it
Rind old IVIrs. Beckwith said something sensible
But it was a house full of unrelated passions—she
had felt that all the evening. And on top of this
chaos Mr. Ramsay got up, pressed her hand, and
said: “You will find us much changed” and
none of them had moved or had spoken; but had
sat there as if they were forced to let him say it.
Only James (certainly the Sullen) scowled at the
lamp; and Cam screwed her handkerchief round
her finger. Then he reminded them that they
were going to the Lighthouse to-morrow. They
must be ready, in the hall, on the stroke of half¬
past seven. Then, with his hand on the door,,
he stopped; he turned upon them. Did they not
want to go? he demanded. Had they dared say !
No (he had some reason for wanting it) he would
have flung himself tragically backwards into the
bitter waters of despair. Such a gift he had'
for gesture. He looked like a king in exile.
Doggedly James said yes. Cam stumbled more I
wretchedly. Yes, oh yes, they’d both be ready, !
they said. And it struck her, this was tragedy— 1
not palls, dust, and the shroud; but children
coerced, their spirits subdued. James was sixteen,
Cam seventeen, perhaps. She had looked round!
for someone who was not there, for Mrs. Ramsay,
2 3° I

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

of England—the Red, the Fair, the Wicked, tk
Ruthless,—she felt how they raged under it,
Kind old Mrs. Beckwith said something sensible.

But it was a house full of unrelated passions—she
had felt that all the evening. And on top of this
chaos Mr. Ramsay got up, pressed her hand, and
said: “ You will find us much changed ” and *
none of them had moved or had spoken; but had
sat there as if they were forced to let him say it.
Only James (certainly the Sullen) scowled at the
lamp; and Cam screwed her handkerchief round
her finger. Then he reminded them that they
were going to the Lighthouse to-morrow. They
must be ready, in the hall, on the stroke of half¬
past seven. Then, with his hand on the door^.- f
he stopped; he turned upon them. Did they not
want to go? he demanded. Had they dared say
No (he had some reason for wanting it) he would
have flung himself tragically backwards into the
bitter waters of despair. Such a gift he had
for gesture. He looked like a king in exile.
Doggedly James said yes. Cam stumbled more
wretchedly. Yes, oh yes, they’d both be ready,
they said. And it struck her, this was tragedy—
not palls, dust, and the shroud; but children
coerced, their spirits subdued. James was sixteen,
Cam seventeen, perhaps. She had looked round
for someone who was not there, for Mrs. Ramsay,

2 3° U

presu

Beck 1

lamp,

and f
place:
the c
herse

stark
the ii
passe
at on
S]

as a ]

stand

ness.

was 1

mass

Let '

speal

meat

chanj

colon

back

he’ll

some

rejea

woul

be of

THE LIGHTHOUSE

V- V >

4 the
ler it,
tisible,

; —she
ff this
d, and
” and •
it had
say it.
at the
round
: they
They
: half-
door,^,
eynot
:d say
vould
:o the
; had
exile,
more
eady,
:dy—
ldren
:teen,
ound
nsay,

presumably. But there was only kind Mrs.
Beckwith turning over her sketches under the
lamp. Then, being tired, her mind still rising
and falling with the sea, the taste and smell that
places have after long absence possessing her,
the candles wavering in her eyes, she had lost
herself and gone under. It was a wonderful night,
starlit; the waves sounded as they went upstairs;
the moon surprised them, enormous, pale, as they
passed the staircase window. She had slept
at once.

She set her clean canvas firmly upon the easel,
as a barrier, frail, but she hoped sufficiently sub¬
stantial to ward off Mr. Ramsay and his exacting¬
ness. She did her best to look, when his back
was turned, at her picture; that line there, that
mass there. But it was out of the question.
Let him be fifty feet away, let him not even
speak to you, let him not even see you, he per¬
meated, he prevailed, he imposed himself. He
changed everything. She could not see the
colour; she could not see the lines; even with his
back turned to her, she could only think, But
lie’ll be down on me in a moment, demanding—
something she felt she could not give him. She
rejected one brush; she chose another. When
would those children come? When would they all
be off? she fidgeted. That man, she thought, her

231

To THE lighthouse

an g er rising in her, never gave; that man took.
She, on the other hand, would be forced to give.

^ rS ; had § iven - Giving, giving, giving,

she had died-—and had left all this. Really, she
was angry with Mrs. Ramsay. With the brush
slightly trembling in her fingers she looked at

the hedge, the step, the wall. It was all Mrs.
Ramsay’s doing. She was dead. Here was Lily,
at ^ forty-four, wasting her time, unable to do a
thing, standing there, playing at painting, playing
at the one thing one did not play at, and it was
all Mrs. Ramsay’s fault. She was dead. The

step where she used to sit was empty. She was
dead.

But why repeat this over and over again? Why
be always trying to bring up some feeling she
had not got? There was a kind of blasphemy
in it. t was all dry: all withered: all spent.

hey ought not to have asked her; she ought
not to have come. One can’t waste one’s time
at orty-four, she thought. She hated playing
at painting. A brush, the one dependable thing
in a wor d of strife, ruin, chaos—that one should
not p ay with, knowingly even: she detested it.
ut e ma e her. You shan’t touch your canvas,
e seeme to say, bearing down on her, till you’ve
given me what I want of you. Here he was,'
c ose upon er again, greedy, distraught. Well,,

THE LIGHTHOUSE

thought Lily in despair, letting her right hand
fall at her side, it would be simpler then to have
it over. Surely she could imitate from recollec¬
tion the glow, the rhapsody, the self-surrender
she had seen on so many women's faces (on Mrs.
Ramsay's, for instance) when on some occasion
like this they blazed up—she could remember
the look on Mrs. Ramsay's face—into a rapture
of sympathy, of delight in the reward they had,
which, though the reason of it escaped her,
evidently conferred on them the most supreme
bliss of which human nature was capable. Here
he was, stopped by her side. She would give
him what she could.

3

She seemed to have shrivelled slightly, he
thought. She looked a little skimpy, wispy; but
not unattractive. He liked her. There had
been some talk of her marrying William Bankes
' once, but nothing had come of it. His wife had
been fond of her. He had been a little out of
temper too at breakfast. And then, and then—
this was one of those moments when an enormous
need urged him, without being conscious what
it was, to approach any woman, to force them, he
did not care how, his need was so great, to give
him what he wanted: sympathy.

233

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

sunny grass and discolour it, and cast over the
rubicund, drowsy, entirely contented figure of
Mr. Carmichael, reading a French novel on a
deck-chair, a veil of crape, as if such an existence,
flaunting its prosperity in a world of woe, were
enough to provoke the most dismal thoughts of
all. Look at him, he seemed to be saying, look
at me; and indeed, all the time he was feeling,
Think of me, think of me. Ah, could that bulk
only be wafted alongside of them, Lily wished;
had she only pitched her easel a yard or two closer
to him; a man, any man, would staunch this
effusion, would stop these lamentations. A
woman, she had provoked this horror; a woman,
she should have known how to deal with it. It
was immensely to her discredit, sexually, to stand
there dumb. One said—what did one say?—
Oh, Mr. Ramsay! Dear Mr. Ramsay! That
was what that kind old lady who sketched, Mrs.
Beckwith, would have said instantly, and rightly.
But no. They stood there, isolated from the
rest of the world. His immense self-pity, his
demand for sympathy poured and spread itself
in pools at her feet, and all she did, miserable
sinner that she was, was to draw her skirts a little
closer round her ankles, lest she should get wet.
In complete silence she stood there, grasping
her paint brush.

236

THE LIGHTHOUSE

Heaven could never be sufficiently praised!
She heard sounds in the house. James and Cam
must be coming. But Mr. Ramsay, as if he knew
that his time ran short, exerted upon her solitary
figure the immense pressure of his concentrated
woe; his age; his frailty; his desolation; when
suddenly, tossing his head impatiently, in his
annoyance—for, after all, what woman could resist
him?—he noticed that his boot-laces were untied.
Remarkable boots they were too, Lily thought,
looking down at them: sculptured; colossal; like
everything that Mr. Ramsay wore, from his
frayed tie to his half-buttoned waistcoat, his own
indisputably. She could see them walking to
his room of their own accord, expressive in
his absence of pathos, surliness, ill-temper,
charm.

“ What beautiful boots! ” she exclaimed. She
was ashamed of herself. To praise his boots when
he asked her to solace his soul; when he had
shown her his bleeding hands, his lacerated heart,
and asked her to pity them, then to say, cheer¬
fully, “ Ah, but what beautiful boots you wear! ”
deserved, she knew, and she looked up expecting
to get it, in one of his sudden roars of ill-temper,
complete annihilation.

Instead, Mr. Ramsay smiled. His pall, his
draperies, his infirmities fell from him. Ah yes,

237

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

he said, holding his foot up for her to look at,
they were first-rate boots. There was only one
man in England who could make boots like that.
Boots are among the chief curses of mankind, he
said. “ Bootmakers make it their business,” he
exclaimed, “ to cripple and torture the human
foot.” They are also the most obstinate and
perverse of mankind. It had taken him the best
part of his youth to get boots made as they should
be made. He would have her observe (he lifted
his right foot and then his left) that she had never
seen boots made quite that shape before. They
were made of the finest leather in the world, also.
Most leather was mere brown paper and card¬
board. He looked complacently at his foot, still
held in the air. They had reached, she felt, a
sunny island where peace dwelt, sanity reigned
and the sun for ever shone, the blessed island of
good boots. Her heart warmed to him. “ Now
let me see if you can tie a knot,” he said. He
poohpoohed her feeble system. He showed her
his own invention. Once you tied it, it never
came undone. Three times he knotted her shoe;
three times he unknotted it.

Why, at this completely inappropriate moment,
when he was stooping over her shoe, should she
be so tormented with sympathy for him that, as
she stooped too, the blood rushed to her face, and,
238

THE LIGHTHOUSE

thinking of her callousness (she had called him a
play-actor) she felt her eyes swell and tingle with
tears? Thus occupied he seemed to her a figure
of infinite pathos. He tied knots. He bought
boots. There was no helping Mr. Ramsay
on the journey he was going. But now just
as she wished to say something, could have
said something, perhaps, here they were—Cam
and James. They appeared on the terrace. They
came, lagging, side by side, a serious, melancholy
couple.

But why was it like that that they came? She
could not help feeling annoyed with them; they
might have come more cheerfully; they might
have given him what, now that they were off, she
would not have the chance of giving him. For
she felt a sudden emptiness; a frustration. Her
feeling had come too late; there it was ready;
but he no longer needed it. He had become a
very distinguished, elderly man, who had no need
of her whatsoever. She felt snubbed. He slung
a knapsack round his shoulders. He shared out
the parcels—there were a number of them, ill
tied, in brown paper. He sent Cam for a cloak.
He had all the appearance of a leader making
ready for an expedition. Then, wheeling about,
he led the way with his firm military tread, in those
wonderful boots, carrying brown paper parcels,

239

TO THE UGHT|h ouse

down the path, his children fallowing him. They
looked, she thought, as/tf f ate had devoted
them to some stern enterprise, and they went
to it, still young enough to be drawn acquiescent
in their father’s w?ake, obediently, but with a
pallor in their eyes ywhich made her feel that
they suffered somethings beyond their years in
silence. So they passed fifee edge of the lawn,
and it seemed to Lily that s&ewatched a pro¬
cession go, drawn on by some stress of common
feeling which made it, faltering and ..flagging as
it was, a little company bound together and
strangely impressive to her. Politely, -fpf
distantly, Mr. Ramsay raised his hand and saluted
her as they passed.

But what a face, she thought, immediately
finding the sympathy which she had not been
asked to give troubling her for expression.
What had made it like that? Thinking, night
after night, she supposed—about the reality of
kitchen tables, she added, remembering the
symbol which in her vagueness as to what Mr.
Ramsay did think about Andrew had given her.
(He had been killed by the splinter of a shell
instantly, she bethought her.) The kitchen table
was something visionary, austere; something bare,
hard, not ornamental. There was no colour to it;
it was all edges and angles; it was uncompromis-

240

THE LIGHTHOUSE

ingly plain. But Mr, Ramsay kept always his
eyes fixed upon it, never allowed himself to be
distracted or deluded, until his face became worn
too and ascetic and partook of this unornamented
beauty which so deeply impressed her. Then, she
recalled (standing where he had left her, holding
her brush), worries had fretted it—not so nobly.
He must have had his doubts about that table, she
supposed; whether the table was a real table;
whether it was worth the time he gave to it;
whether he was able after all to find it. He had
had doubts, she felt, or he would have asked less
of people. That was what they talked about late
at night sometimes, she suspected; and then next
day Mrs. Ramsay looked tired, and Lily flew into
a rage with him over some absurd little thing.
But now he had nobody to talk to about that table,
or his boots, or his knots; and he was like a lion
seeking whom he could devour, and his face had
that touch of desperation, of exaggeration in it
which alarmed her, and made her pull her skirts
about her. And then, she recalled, there was that
sudden revivification, that sudden flare (when she
praised his boots), that sudden recovery of vitality
and interest in ordinary human things, which too
passed and changed (for he was always changing,
and hid nothing) into that other final phase which
was new to her and had, she owned, made herself
Q 241

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

ashamed of her own irritability, when it seemed
as if he had shed worries and ambitions, and the
hope of sympathy and the desire for praise, had
entered some other region, was drawn on, as if
by curiosity, in dumb colloquy, whether with
himself or another, at the head of that little
procession out of one’s range. An extraordinary
face! The gate banged.

4

So they’re gone, she thought, sighing with
relief and disappointment. Her sympathy seemed
to fly back in her face, like a bramble sprung.
She felt curiously divided, as if one part of her
were drawn out there—it was a still day, hazy 5
the Lighthouse looked this morning at an immense
distance; the other had fixed itself doggedly,
solidly, here on the lawn. She saw her canvas
as if it had floated up and placed itself white
and uncompromising directly before her. It

seemed to rebuke her with its cold stare for
all this hurry and agitation; this folly and
waste of emotion; it drastically recalled her and
spread through her mind first a peace, as her dis¬
orderly sensations (he had gone and she had been
so sorry for him and she had said nothing)
trooped off the field; and then, emptiness. She
242

THE LIGHTHOUSE

looked blankly* at the canvas, with its uncom¬
promising white stare; from the canvas to the
garden. There was something (she stood screw¬
ing up her little Chinese eyes in her small puckered
face) something she remembered in the relations
of those lines cutting across, slicing down, and
in the mass of the hedge with its green cave of
blues and browns, which had stayed in her mind;
which had tied a knot in her mind so that at odds
and ends of time, involuntarily, as she walked
along the Brompton Road, as she brushed her
hair, she found herself painting that picture,
passing her eye over it, and untying the knot in
imagination. But there was all the difference in
the world between this planning airily away
from the canvas, and actually taking her brush
and making the first mark.

She had taken the wrong brush in her agitation
at Mr. Ramsay’s presence, and her easel, rammed
into the earth so nervously, was at the wrong angle.
And now that she had put that right, and in so
doing had subdued the impertinences and irrele¬
vances that plucked her attention and made her
remember how she was such and such a person,
had such and such relations to people, she took
her hand and raised her brush. For a moment it
stayed trembling in a painful but exciting ecstasy
in the air. Where to begin?—that was the

243

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

question; at what point to make the first mark?
One line placed on the canvas committed her to
innumerable risks, to frequent and irrevocable
decisions. All that in idea seemed simple became
in practice immediately complex; as the waves
shape themselves symmetrically from the cliff
top, but to the swimmer among them are divided
by steep gulfs, and foaming crests. Still the risk
must be run; the mark made.

With a curious physical sensation, as if she
were urged forward and at the same time must
hold herself back, she made her first quick
decisive stroke. The brush descended. It
flickered brown over the white canvas; it left a
running mark. A second time she did it—a third
time. And so pausing and so flickering, she
attained a dancing rhythmical movement, as if
the pauses were one part of the rhythm and the
strokes another, and all were related; and so,
lightly and swiftly pausing, striking, she scored
her canvas with brown running nervous lines
which had no sooner settled there than they
enclosed (she felt it looming out at her) a space.
Down in the hollow of one wave she saw the next
wave towering higher and higher above her.
For what could be more formidable than that
space? Here she was again, she thought, stepping
back to look at it, drawn out of gossip, out of
244

THE LIGHTHOUSE

living, out of community with people into the
presence of this formidable ancient enemy of hers
—this other thing, this truth, this reality, which
suddenly laid hands on her, emerged stark at the
back of appearances and commanded her atten¬
tion, She was half unwilling, half reluctant.
Why always be drawn out and haled away? Why
not left in peace, to talk to Mr. Carmichael on
the lawn? It was an exacting form of intercourse
anyhow. Other worshipful objects were content
with worship; men, women, God, all let one
kneel prostrate; but this form, were it only the
shape of a white lamp-shade looming on a
wicker table, roused one to perpetual combat,
challenged one to a fight in which one was bound
to be worsted. Always (it was in her nature, or
in her sex, she did not know which) before
she exchanged the fluidity of life for the con¬
centration of painting she had a few moments
of nakedness when she seemed like an unborn
soul, a soul reft of body, hesitating on some
windy pinnacle and exposed without protection
to all the blasts of doubt. Why then did she
do it? She looked at the canvas, lightly scored
with running lines. It would be hung in the
servants’ bedrooms. It would be rolled up and
stuffed under a sofa. What was the good of
doing it then, and she heard some voice saying

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

she couldn’t paint, saying she couldn’t create,
as if she were caught up in one of those
habitual currents which after a certain time forms
experience in the mind, so that one repeats words
without being aware any longer who originally
spoke them.

Can’t paint, can’t write, she murmured mono¬
tonously, anxiously considering what her plan of
attack should be. For the mass loomed before
her; it protruded; she felt it pressing on her
eyeballs. Then, as if some juice necessary for the
lubrication of her faculties were spontaneously
squirted, she began precariously dipping among
the blues and umbers, moving her brush hither
and thither, but it was now heavier and went
slower, as if it had fallen in with some rhythm
which was dictated to her (she kept looking at the
hedge, at the canvas) by what she saw, so that
while her hand quivered with life, this rhythm
was strong enough to bear her along with it on its
current. Certainly she was losing consciousness
of outer things. And as she lost consciousness of
outer things, and her name and her personality
and her appearance, and whether Mr. Carmichael
was there or not, her mind kept throwing up
from its depths, scenes, and names, and sayings,
and memories and ideas, like a fountain spurt¬
ing over that glaring, hideously difficult white
246

THE LIGHTHOUSE

>- „

space, while she modelled it with greens and
blues.

Charles Tansley used to say that, she remem¬
bered, women can’t paint, can’t write. Coming up
behind her he had stood close beside her, a thing
she hated, as she painted here on this very spot.
“ Shag tobacco ”, he said, “ fivepence an ounce”,
parading his poverty, his principles. (But the war
had drawn the sting of her femininity. Poor
devils, one thought, poor devils of both sexes,
getting into such messes.) He was always carrying
a book about under his arm—a purple book.
He “worked”. He sat, she remembered, work¬
ing in a blaze of sun. At dinner he would sit
; right in the middle of the view. And then,
,#/ she reflected, there was that scene on the
beach. One must remember that. It was a
windy morning. They had all gone to the
beach. Mrs. Ramsay sat and wrote letters by a
rock. She wrote and wrote. “ Oh,” she said,
looking up at last at something floating in the
sea, “ is it a lobster pot? Is it an upturned boat? ”
She was so short-sighted that she could not see,
and then Charles Tansley became as nice as he
could possibly be. He began playing ducks and
drakes. They chose little flat black stones and
sent them skipping over the waves. Every now
and then Mrs. Ramsay looked up over her

2 47

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

spectacles and laughed at them. What they said”*''
she could not remember, but only she and Charles
throwing stones and getting on very well all of a
sudden and Mrs. Ramsay watching them. She
was highly conscious of that. Mrs. Ramsay, she
thought, stepping back and screwing up her eyes,
(It must have altered the design a good deal when
she was sitting on the step with James. There
must have been a shadow.) Mrs. Ramsay. When
she thought of herself and Charles throwing
ducks and drakes and of the whole scene on
the beach, it seemed to depend somehow upon
Mrs. Ramsay sitting under the rock, with a pad
on her knee, writing letters. (She wrote in- ^
numerable letters, and sometimes the wind took
them and she and Charles just saved a page from
the sea.) But what a power was in the human
soul! she thought. That woman sitting there,
writing under the rock resolved everything into
simplicity; made these angers, irritations fall off
like old rags; she brought together this and that
and then this, and so made out of that miserable
silliness and spite (she and Charles squabbling,
sparring, had been silly and spiteful) something
—this scene on the beach for example, this
moment of friendship and liking—which sur¬
vived, after all these years, complete, so that she
dipped into it to re-fashion her memory of him,
248

-17

THE LIGHTHOUSE

and it stayed in the mind almost like a work
of art.

“ Like a work of art,” she repeated, looking
from her canvas to the drawing-room steps and
back again. She must rest for a moment. And,
resting, looking from one to the other vaguely, the
old question which traversed the sky of the soul
perpetually, the vast, the general question which
was apt to particularise itself at such moments as
these, when she released faculties that had been
on the strain, stood over her, paused over her,
darkened over her. What is the meaning of life?
That was all—a simple question; one that tended
to close in on one with years. The great revela¬
tion had never come. The great revelation per¬
haps never did come. Instead there were little
daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck un¬
expectedly in the dark; here was one. This, that,
and the other; herself and Charles Tansley and
the breaking wave; Mrs. Ramsay bringing them
together; Mrs. Ramsay saying “ Life stand still
here ”; Mrs. Ramsay making of the moment
something permanent (as in another sphere Lily
herself tried to make of the moment something
permanent)—this was of the nature of a revela¬
tion. In the midst of chaos there was shape;
this eternal passing and flowing (she looked at
the clouds going and the leaves shaking) was

249

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

struck into stability. Life stand still here,
Mrs. Ramsay said. “ Mrs. Ramsay! Mrs.
Ramsay! ” she repeated. She owed this revela¬
tion to her.

All was silence. Nobody seemed yet to be
stirring in the house. She looked at it there
sleeping in the early sunlight with its windows
green and blue with the reflected leaves. The
faint thought she was thinking of Mrs. Ramsay
seemed in consonance with this quiet house; this
smoke; this fine early morning air. Faint and
unreal, it was amazingly pure and exciting. She
hoped nobody would open the window or come
out of the house, but that she might be left
alone to go on thinking, to go on painting. She
turned to her canvas. But impelled by some
curiosity, driven by the discomfort of the sympathy
which she held undischarged, she walked a pace
or so to the end of the lawn to see whether, down
there on the beach, she could see that little
company setting sail. Down there among the little
boats which floated, some with their sails furled,
some slowly, for it was very calm, moving away,
there was one rather apart from the others. The
sail was even now being hoisted. She decided that
there in that very distant and entirely silent little
boat Mr. Ramsay was sitting with Cam and James.
Now they had got the sail up; now after a little
250

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

never rise, that he might be thwarted in every
possible way, since he had forced them to come
against their wills.

All the way down to the beach they had lagged
behind together, though he bade them “ Walk up,
walk up ”, without speaking. Their heads were
bent down, their heads were pressed down by
some remorseless gale. Speak to him they could
not. They must come; they must follow. They
must walk behind him carrying brown paper
parcels. But they vowed, in silence, as they
walked, to stand by each other and carry out the
great compact—to resist tyranny to the death.
So there they would sit, one at one end of the boat,
one at the other, in silence. They would say
nothing, only look at him now and then where he
sat with his legs twisted, frowning and fidgeting,
and pishing and pshawing and muttering things
to himself, and waiting impatiently for a breeze.
And they hoped it would be calm. They hoped
he would be thwarted. They hoped the whole
expedition would fail, and they would have to put
back, with their parcels, to the beach.

But now, when Macalister’s boy had rowed a
little way out, the sails slowly swung round, the
boat quickened itself, flattened itself, and shot off.
Instantly, as if some great strain had been relieved,
Mr. Ramsay uncurled his legs, took out his
252

THE LIGHTHOUSE

tobacco pouch, handed it with a little grunt to
Macalister, and felt, they knew, for all they
suffered, perfectly content. Now they would sail
on for hours like this, and Mr. Ramsay would
ask old Macalister a question—about the great
storm last winter probably—and old Macalister
would answer it, and they would puff their pipes
together, and Macalister would take a tarry rope
in his fingers, tying or untying some knot, and
the boy would fish, and never say a word to any
one. James would be forced to keep his eye all
the time on the sail. For if he forgot, then the
sail puckered, and shivered, and the boat slackened,
and Mr. Ramsay would say sharply, “ Look out!
Look out! ” and old Macalister would turn slowly
on his seat. So they heard Mr. Ramsay asking
some question about the great storm at Christmas.
“ She comes driving round the point,” old
Macalister said, describing the great storm last
Christmas, when ten ships had been driven into
the bay for shelter, and he had seen “ one there,
one there, one there ” (he pointed slowly round
the bay. Mr. Ramsay followed him, turning his
head). He had seen three men clinging to the
mast. Then she was gone. “ And at last we
shoved her off,” he went on (but in their anger
and their silence they only caught a word here and
there, sitting at opposite ends of the boat, united

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

by their compact to fight tyranny to the death)/
At last they had shoved her off, they had launched
the lifeboat, and they had got her out past the
point—Macalister told the story; and though
they only caught a word here and there, they were
conscious all the time of their father—how he
leant forward, how he brought his voice into tune
with Macalister’s voice; how, puffing at his pipe,
and looking there and there where Macalister
pointed, he relished the thought of the storm and
the dark night and the fishermen striving there.
He liked that men should labour and sweat
on the windy beach at night, pitting muscle
and brain against the waves and the wind; he
liked men to work like that, and women to keep
house, and sit beside sleeping children indoors,
while men were drowned, out there in a storm.
So James could tell, so Cam could tell (they looked
at him, they looked at each other), from his toss
and his vigilance and the ring in his voice, and the
little tinge of Scottish accent which came into his
voice, making him seem like a peasant himself, as
he questioned Macalister about the eleven ships
that had been driven into the bay in a storm.
Three had sunk.

He looked proudly where Macalister pointed;
and Cam thought, feeling proud of him without
knowing quite why, had he been there he would
2 54

THE LIGHTHOUSE

have launched the lifeboat, he would have reached
the wreck, Cam thought. He was so brave, he
was so adventurous, Cam thought. But she
remembered. There was the compact; to resist
tyranny to the death. Their grievance weighed
them down. They had been forced; they had
been bidden. He had borne them down once
more with his gloom and his authority, making
them do his bidding, on this fine morning, come,
because he wished it, carrying these parcels, to the
Lighthouse; take part in those rites he went
through for his own pleasure in memory of dead
people, which they hated, so that they lagged
after him, and all the pleasure of the day was
spoilt.

Yes, the breeze was freshening. The boat was
leaning, the water was sliced sharply and fell away
in green cascades, in bubbles, in cataracts. Cam
looked down into the foam, into the sea with all
its treasure in it, and its speed hypnotised her,
and the tie between her and James sagged a little.
It slackened a little. She began to think, How
fast it goes. Where are we going? and the move¬
ment hypnotised her, while James, with his eye
fixed on the sail and on the horizon, steered grimly.
But he began to think as he steered that he might
escape; he might be quit of it all. They might
land somewhere; and be free then. Both of them,

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

looking at each other for a moment, had a sense of’
escape and exaltation, what with the speed and the
change. But the breeze bred in Mr. Ramsay too
the same excitement, and, as old Macalister turned
to fling his line overboard, he cried aloud,
We perished, and then again, “ each alone.’’
And then with his usual spasm of repentance or
shyness, pulled himself up, and waved his hand
towards the shore.

. ‘‘. Se V he Httle house >” he said pointing,
wishing Cam to look. She raised herself reluc¬
tantly and looked. But which was it? She could
no longer make out, there on the hillside, which
was their house. All looked distant and peaceful
and strange. The shore seemed refined, far away,
unreal. Already the little distance they had sailed
had put them far from it and given it the changed
look the composed look, of something receding in
w ich one has no longer any part. Which was
their house? She could not see it.

“ But 1 ^neath a rougher sea,” Mr. Ramsay
murmured. He had found the house and so seeing

himstif ,1 8660 himSdf th6re > he had se en

himself walking on the terrace, alone. He was

alkmg up and down between the urns; and he

inTb^ K lm K Sdf Vei7 ° ld ’ and bowed ' Sitting

inslandvt ^ ^ Cr ° UcIled Hmself > act 4

^ 1S P ar ^ P art of a desolate man,

THE LIGHTHOUSE

widowed, bereft; and so called up before him
in hosts people sympathising with him; staged
for himself as he sat in the boat, a little drama;
which required of him decrepitude and exhaustion
and sorrow (he raised his hands and looked at the
thinness of them, to confirm his dream) and then
there was given him in abundance women's
sympathy, and he imagined how they would
soothe him and sympathise with him, and so
getting in his dream some reflection of the
exquisite pleasure women's sympathy was to him,
he sighed and said gently and mournfully,

But I beneath a rougher sea

Was whelmed in deeper gulfs than he,

so that the mournful words were heard quite
clearly by them all. Cam half started on her seat.
It shocked her—it outraged her. The movement
roused her father; and he shuddered, and broke
off, exclaiming: “ Look! Look! ” so urgently
that James also turned his head to look over his
shoulder at the island. They all looked. They
looked at the island.

But Cam could see nothing. She was thinking
how all those paths and the lawn, thick and knotted
with the lives they had lived there, were gone:
were rubbed out; were past; were unreal, and now
this was real; the boat and the sail with its patch;
Macalister with his earrings; the noise of the

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

waves—all this was real. Thinking this, she was
murmuring to herself “We perished, each alone”,
for her father’s words broke and broke again in
her mind, when her father, seeing her gazing so
vaguely, began to tease her. Didn’t she know the
points of the compass? he asked. Didn’t she
know the North from the South? Did she really
think they lived right out there? And he pointed
again, and showed her where their house was,
there, by those trees. He wished she would try
to be more accurate, he said: “ Tell me—which
is East, which is West? ” he said, half laughing
at her, half scolding her, for he could not under¬
stand the state of mind of any one, not absolutely
imbecile, who did not know the points of-dhev
compass. Yet she did not know. And seeing her
gazing, with her vague, now rather frightened,.,
eyes fixed where no house was IVIr. Ramsay forgot
his dream; how he walked up and down between
the urns on the terrace; how the arms were
stretched out to him. He thought, women are
always like that; the vagueness of their minds is
hopeless; it was a thing he had never been able to
understand; but so it was. It had been so with
her his wife. They could not keep anything
clearly fixed in their minds. But he had been
wrong to be angry with her; moreover, did he
not rather like this vagueness in women? It was
2y8

THE LIGHTHOUSE

part of their extraordinary charm. I will make her
smile at me, he thought. She looks frightened.
She was so silent. He clutched his fingers, and
determined that his voice and his face and all the
quick expressive gestures which had been at his
command making people pity him and praise him
all these years should subdue themselves. He
would make her smile at him. He would find
some simple easy thing to say to her. But what?
For, wrapped up in his work as he was, he forgot
the sort of thing one said. There was a puppy.
They had a puppy. Who was looking after the
puppy to-day? he asked. Yes, thought James
pitilessly, seeing his sister’s head against the sail,
now she will give way. I shall be left to fight the
tyrant alone. The compact would be left to him
to carry out. Cam would never resist tyranny to
the death, he thought grimly, watching her face,
sad, sulky, yielding. And as sometimes happens
when a cloud falls on a green hillside and gravity
descends and there among all the surrounding
hills is gloom and sorrow, and it seems as if the
hills themselves must ponder the fate of the
clouded, the darkened, either in pity, or malici¬
ously rejoicing in her dismay: so Cam now felt
herself overcast, as she sat there among calm,
resolute people and wondered how to answer her
father about the puppy; how to resist his entreaty

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

—forgive me, care for me; while James the
lawgiver, with the tablets of eternal wisdom laid
open on his knee (his hand on the tiller had become
symbolical to her), said, Resist him. Fight him.
He said so rightly; justly. For they must fight
tyranny to the death, she thought. Of all human
qualities she reverenced justice most. Her brother
was most god-like, her father most suppliant.
And to which did she yield, she thought, sitting
between them, gazing at the shore whose points
were all unknown to her, and thinking how the
lawn and the terrace and the house were smoothed
away now and peace dwelt there.

“ Jasper,” she said sullenly. He’d look after
the puppy.

And what was she going to call him? her
father persisted. He had had a dog when he was
a little boy, called Frisk. She’ll give way, James
thought, as he watched a look come upon her
face, a look he remembered. They look down,
he thought, at their knitting or something. Then
suddenly they look up. There was a flash of blue,
he remembered, and then somebody sitting with
him laughed, surrendered, and he was very angry.
It must have been his mother, he thought,
sitting on a low chair, with his father standing
over her. He began to search among the
infinite series of impressions which time had laid
260

the lighthouse

down, leaf upon leaf, fold upon fold softly,
incessantly upon his brain; among scents, sounds;
voices, harsh, hollow, sweet; and lights passing,
and brooms tapping; and the wash and hush of
the sea, how a man had marched up and down and
stopped dead, upright, over them. Meanwhile,
e noticed, Cam dabbled her fingers in the water,
and stared at the shore and said nothing. No,
she won’t give way, he thought; she’s different’
be thought. Well, if Cam would not answer him,
he would not bother her, Mr. Ramsay decided,
feeling in his pocket for a book. But she would
answer him; she wished, passionately, to move
some obstacle that lay upon her tongue and to say,
Oh yes, Frisk. I’ll call him Frisk. She wanted
even to say, Was that the dog that found its way
over the moor alone? But try as she might, she
could think of nothing to say like that, fierce
and loyal to the compact, yet passing on to her
father, unsuspected by James, a private token
of the love she felt for him. For she thought,
dabbling her hand (and now Macalister’s boy
had caught a mackerel, and it lay kicking on the
floor, with blood on its gills) for she thought,
looking at James who kept his eyes dispassionately
on the sail, or glanced now and then for a second
at the horizon, you’re not exposed to it, to this
pressure and division of feeling, this extra-

261

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

ordinary temptation. Her father was feeling in
his pockets; in another second, he would have
found his book. For no one attracted her more;
his hands were beautiful to her and his feet, and
his voice, and his words, and his haste, and his
temper, and his oddity, and his passion, and his
saying straight out before every one, we perish,
each alone, and his remoteness. (He had opened
his book.) But what remained intolerable, she
thought, sitting upright, and watching Macalister’s
boy tug the hook out of the gills of another fish,
was that crass blindness and tyranny of his which
had poisoned her childhood and raised bitter
storms, so that even now she woke in the night
trembling with rage and remembered some
command of his; some insolence: “ Do this ”,
“Do that”; his dominance: his “Submitto me”.

So she said nothing, but looked doggedly and
sadly at the shore, wrapped in its mantle of peace;
as if the people there had fallen asleep, she
thought; were free like smoke, were free to come
and go like ghosts. They have no suffering there,
she thought.

6

Yes, that is their boat, Lily Briscoe decided,
standing on the edge of the lawn. It was the boat
with greyish-brown sails, which she saw now
262

1HE LIGHTHOUSE

thT'bav SC Th P °" ? C Wlter “ d Sh ° 0t off across
bere be Slts 5 s he thought, and the

realhT- “* ^ ^ StilL And she cou!d n <*

reach him either. The sympathy she had not

given him weighed her down. It made it difficult
for her to paint.

She had always found him difficult. She had
never been able to praise him to his face, she
remembered. And that reduced their relationship
to something neutral, without that element of sex
in it which made his manner to Minta so gallant
almost gay He would pick a flower for her, lend
er his books. But could he believe that Minta
read them. She dragged them about the garden,
sticking m leaves to mark the place.

“ D’you remember, Mr. Carmichael?” she
was inclined to ask, looking at the old man. But
he had pulled his hat half over his forehead; he
was asleep,, or he was dreaming, or he was lying
there catching words, she supposed.

D you remember? ” she felt inclined to ask
him as she passed him, thinking again of Mrs.
Ramsay on the beach; the cask bobbing up and
down; and the pages flying. Why, after all these
years had that survived, ringed round, lit up,
visible to the last detail, with all before it blank
and all after it blank, for miles and miles?

“ Is k a boat? Is ^ a cork? ” she would say,

263

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Lily repeated, turning back, reluctantly again, to
her canvas. Heaven be praised for it, the
problem of space remained, she thought, taking
up her brush again. It glared at her. The
whole mass of the picture was poised upon that
weight. Beautiful and bright it should be on
the surface, feathery and evanescent, one colour
melting into another like the colours on a
butterfly’s wing; but beneath the fabric must
be clamped together with bolts of iron. It was
to be a thing you could ruffle with your breath;
and a thing you could not dislodge with a team
of horses. And she began to lay on a red, a grey,
and she began to model her way into the hollow
there. At the same time, she seemed to be
sitting beside Mrs. Ramsay on the beach.

“ Is it a boat? Is it a cask? ” Mrs. Ramsay
said. And she began hunting round for her
spectacles. And she sat, having found them,
silent, looking out to sea. And Lily, painting
steadily, felt as if a door had opened, and one went
in and stood gazing silently about in a high
cathedral - like place, very dark, very solemn.
Shouts came from a world far away. Steamers
vanished in stalks of smoke on the horizon.
Charles threw stones and sent them skipping.

Mrs. Ramsay sat silent. She was glad, Lily
thought, to rest in silence, uncommunicative; to
264

THE LIGHTHOUSE

rest in the extreme obscurity of human relation¬
ships. Who knows what we are, what we feel?
Who knows even at the moment of intimacy, This
is knowledge? Aren’t things spoilt then, Mrs.
Ramsay may have asked (it seemed to have
happened so often, this silence by her side) by
saying them? Aren’t we more expressive thus?
The moment at least seemed extraordinarily
fertile. She rammed a little hole in the sand and
covered it up, by way of burying in it the per¬
fection of the moment. It was like a drop of
silver in which one dipped and illumined the
darkness of the past.

Lily stepped back to get her canvas — so
—into perspective. It was an odd road to be
walking, this of painting. Out and out one went,
further and further, until at last one seemed to be
on a narrow plank, perfectly alone, over the sea.
And as she dipped into the blue paint, she dipped
too into the past there. Now Mrs. Ramsay got
up, she remembered. It was time to go back to
the house—time for luncheon. And they all
walked up from the beach together, she walking
behind with William Bankes, and there was
Minta in front of them with a hole in her stocking.
How that little round hole of pink heel seemed to
flaunt itself before them! How William Bankes
deplored it, without, so far as she could remember,

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

saying anything about it! It meant to him the
annihilation of womanhood, and dirt and disorder,
and servants leaving and beds not made at mid¬
day—all the things he most abhorred. He had
a way of shuddering and spreading his fingers out
as if to cover an unsightly object, which he did
now—holding his hand in front of him. And
Minta walked on ahead, and presumably Paul
met her and she went off with Paul in the garden.

The Rayleys, thought Lily Briscoe, squeezing
her tube of green paint. She collected her im¬
pressions of the Rayleys. Their lives appeared
to her in a series of scenes; one, on the staircase
at dawn. Paul had come in and gone to bed early;
Minta was late. There was Minta, wreathed,
tinted, garish on the stairs about three o’clock in
the morning. Paul came out in his pyjamas
carrying a poker in case of burglars. Minta was
eating a sandwich, standing half-way up by a
window, in the cadaverous early morning light,
and the carpet had a hole in it. But what did they
say? Lily asked herself, as if by looking she could
hear them. Something violent. Minta went on
eating her sandwich, annoyingly, while he spoke.
He spoke indignant, jealous words, abusing her,
in a mutter so as not to wake the children, the
two little boys. He was withered, drawn; she
flamboyant, careless. For things had worked
266

the lighthouse

loose after the first year or so; the marriage had
turned out rather badly.

And this, Lily thought, taking the green paint
on her brush, this making up scenes about them,
is what we call “ knowing ” people, “ thinking ”
of them, being fond ” of them! Not a word of
it was true; she had made it up; but it was what
she knew them by all the same. She went on
tunnelling her way into her picture, into the past.

Another time, Paul said he “ played chess in
coffee-houses”. She had built up a whole
structure of imagination on that saying too. She
remembered how, as he said it, she thought how
he rang up the servant, and she said “ Mrs.
Rayley s out, sir ”, and he decided that he would
not come home either. She saw him sitting in
the corner of some lugubrious place where the
smoke attached itself to the red plush seats, and
the waitresses got to know you, playing chess
with a little man who was in the tea trade and
lived at Surbiton, but that was all Paul knew about
him. And then Minta was out when he came
home and then there was that scene on the stairs,
when he got the poker in case of burglars (no
doubt to frighten her too) and spoke so bitterly,
saying she had ruined his life. At any rate when
she went down to see them at a cottage near
Rickmansworth, things were horribly strained.

267

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Paul took her down the garden to look at the
Belgian hares which he bred, and Minta followed
them, singing, and put her bare arm on his
shoulder, lest he should tell her anything.

Minta was bored by hares, Lily thought. But
Minta never gave herself away. She never said
things like that about playing chess in coffee¬
houses. She was far too conscious, far too wary.
But to go on with their story—they had got
through the dangerous stage by now. She had
been staying with them last summer some time
and the car broke down and Minta had to hand
him his tools. He sat on the road mending the
car, and it was the way she gave him the tools—
business - like, straightforward, friendly — that
proved it was all right now. They were “ in love ”
no longer; no, he had taken up with another
woman, a serious woman, with her hair in a plait
and a case in her hand (Minta had described
her gratefully, almost admiringly), who went to
meetings and shared Paul’s views (they had got
more and more pronounced) about the taxation of
land values and a capital levy. Far from breaking
up the marriage, that alliance had righted it.
They were excellent friends, obviously, as he sat
on the road and she handed him his tools.

So that was the story of the Rayleys, Lily
smiled. She imagined herself telling it to Mrs.
268

the lighthouse

Ramsay, who would be full of curiosity to know
what had become of the Rayleys. She would feel
a little triumphant, telling Mrs. Ramsay that the
marriage had not been a success.

But the dead, thought Lily, encountering some
obstacle in her design which made her pause and
ponder, stepping back a foot or so, Oh the dead!
she murmured, one pitied them, one brushed
them aside, one had even a little contempt for
them. They are at our mercy. Mrs. Ramsay has
faded and gone, she thought. We can over-ride
her wishes, improve away her limited, old-
fashioned ideas. She recedes further and further
from us. Mockingly she seemed to see her there
at the end of the corridor of years saying, of
all incongruous things, “ Marry, marry! ” (sitting
very upright early in the morning with the birds
beginning to cheep in the garden outside). And
one would have to say to her, It has all gone against
your wishes. They’re happy like that; I’m happy
like this. Life has changed completely. At that
all her being, even her beauty, became for a
moment, dusty and out of date. For a moment
Lily, standing there, with the sun hot on her back,
summing up the Rayleys, triumphed over Mrs.
Ramsay, who would never know how Paul went
to coffee-houses and had a mistress; how he
sat on the ground and Minta handed him his

269

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

tools; how she stood here painting, had never ! f
married, not even William Bankes.

Mrs. Ramsay had planned it. Perhaps, had
she lived, she would have compelled it. Already
that summer he was “ the kindest of men He
was “ the first scientist of his age, my husband
says”. He was also “poor William—it makes
me so unhappy, when I go to see him, to find
nothing nice in his house—no one to arrange the
flowers”. So they were sent for walks together,
and she was told, with that faint touch of irony
that made Mrs. Ramsay slip through one’s fingers,
that she had a scientific mind; she liked flowers; j

she was so exact. What was this mania of hers j

for marriage? Lily wondered, stepping to and
fro from her easel.

f

(Suddenly, as suddenly as a star slides in the
sky, a reddish light seemed to burn in her mind,
covering Paul Rayley, issuing from him. It rose
like a fire sent up in token of some celebration by
savages on a distant beach. She heard the roar
and the crackle. The whole sea for miles round
ran red and gold. Some winy smell mixed with {
it and intoxicated her, for she felt again her own
headlong desire to throw herself off the cliff and
be drowned looking for a pearl brooch on a beach. I
And the roar and the crackle repelled her with fear
and disgust, as if while she saw its splendour and j
270 J

THE lighthouse

power she saw too how it fed on the treasure of
the house, greedily, disgustingly, and she loathed
it.. But for a sight, for a glory it surpassed every¬
thing in her experience, and burnt year after year
like a signal fire on a desert island at the edge of
the sea, and one had only to say “ in love ” and
instantly, as happened now, up rose Paul’s fire
again. And it sank and she said to herself,
laughing, “The Rayleys how Paul went to
coffee-houses and played chess.)

She had only escaped by the skin of her teeth
though, she thought. She had been looking at
the table-cloth, and it had flashed upon her that
she would move the tree to the middle, and need
never marry anybody, and she had felt an enor¬
mous exultation. She had felt, now she could stand
up to Mrs. Ramsay—a tribute to the astonishing
power that Mrs. Ramsay had over one. Do this,
she said, and one did it. Even her shadow at the
window with James was full of authority. She
remembered how William Bankes had been
shocked by her neglect of the significance of
mother and son. Did she not admire their beauty?
he said. But William, she remembered, had
listened to her with his wise child’s eyes when she
explained how it was not irreverence: how a light
there needed a shadow there and so on. She did
not intend to disparage a subject which, they

271

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

agreed, Raphael had treated divinely. She was
not cynical. Quite the contrary. Thanks to his
scientific mind he understood—a proof of dis¬
interested intelligence which had pleased her and
comforted her enormously. One could talk of
painting then seriously to a man. Indeed, his
friendship had been one of the pleasures of her
life. She loved William Bankes.

They went to Hampton Court and he always
left her, like the perfect gentleman he was, plenty
of time to wash her hands, while he strolled by
the river. That was typical of their relationship.
Many things were left unsaid. Then they strolled
through the courtyards, and admired, su mm er
after summer, the proportions and the flowers,
and he would tell her things, about perspective,
about architecture, as they walked, and he would
stop to look at a tree, or the view over the lake,
and admire a child (it was his great grief—he had
no daughter) in the vague aloof way that was
natural to a man who spent so much time in
laboratories that the world when he came out
seemed to dazzle him, so that he walked slowly,
lifted his hand to screen his eyes and paused, with
his head thrown back, merely to breathe the air.
Then he would tell her how his housekeeper was
on her holiday; he must buy a new carpet for the
staircase. Perhaps she would go with him to buy
272

.ssssawsas-

THE LIGHTHOUSE

a new carpet for the staircase. And once some¬
thing led him to talk about the Ramsays and
he had said how when he first saw her she had
been wearing a grey hat; she was not more
than nineteen or twenty. She was astonishingly
beautiful. There he stood looking down the
avenue at Hampton Court, as if he could see her
there among the fountains.

She looked now at the drawing-room step.
She saw, through William’s eyes, the shape of a
woman, peaceful and silent, with downcast eyes.
She sat musing, pondering (she was in grey that
day, Lily thought). Her eyes were bent. She
would never lift them. Yes, thought Lily, looking
intently, I must have seen her look like that, but
not in grey; nor so still, nor so young, nor so
peaceful. The figure came readily enough. She
was astonishingly beautiful, William said. But
beauty was not everything. Beauty had this
penalty—it came too readily, came too com¬
pletely. It stilled life—froze it. One forgot the
little agitations; the flush, the pallor, some queer
distortion, some light or shadow, which made the
face unrecognisable for a moment and yet added a
quality one saw for ever after. It was simpler to
smooth that all out under the cover of beauty.
But what was the look she had, Lily wondered,
when she clapped her deer-stalker’s hat on her
s 273

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

head, or ran across the grass, or scolded Kennedy,
the gardener? Who could tell her? Who could
help her?

Against her will she had come to the surface,
and found herself half out of the picture, looking,
a little dazedly, as if at unreal things, at Mr.
Carmichael. He lay on his chair with his hands
clasped above his paunch not reading, or sleeping,
but basking like a creature gorged with existence.
His book had fallen on to the grass.

She wanted to go straight up to him and say,
“ Mr. Carmichael! ” Then he would look up
benevolently as always, from his smoky vague
green eyes. But one only woke people if one
knew what one wanted to say to them. And she
wanted to say not one thing, but everything.
Little words that broke up the thought and dis¬
membered it said nothing. “ About life, about
death; about Mrs. Ramsay ”—no, she thought,
one could say nothing to nobody. The urgency
of the moment always missed its mark. Words
fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too
low. Then one gave it up; then the idea sunk
back again; then one became like most middle-
aged people, cautious, furtive, with wrinkles
between the eyes and a look of perpetual appre¬
hension. For how could one express in words
these emotions of the body? express that empti-
274

THE LIGHTHOUSE

ness there? (She was looking at the drawing-room
steps; they looked extraordinarily empty). It was
one’s body feeling, not one’s mind. The physical
sensations that went with the bare look of the
steps had become suddenly extremely unpleasant.
To want and not to have, sent all up her body a
hardness, a hollowness, a strain. And then to
want and not to have—to want and want—how
that wrung the heart, and wrung it again and
again! Oh Mrs. Ramsay! she called out silently,
to that essence which sat by the boat, that abstract
one made of her, that woman in grey, as if to
abuse her for having gone, and then having gone,
come back again. It had seemed so safe, thinking
of her. Ghost, air, nothingness, a thing you could
play with easily and safely at any time of day or
night, she had been that, and then suddenly she
put her hand out and wrung the heart thus.
Suddenly, the empty drawing-room steps, the
frill of the chair inside, the puppy tumbling on the
terrace, the whole wave and whisper of the garden
became like curves and arabesques flourishing
round a centre of complete emptiness.

“ What does it mean? How do you explain
it all? ” she wanted to say, turning to Mr.
Carmichael again. For the whole world seemed
to have dissolved in this early morning hour into
a pool of thought, a deep basin of reality, and one

275

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

could almost fancy that had Mr. Carmichael
spoken, a little tear would have rent the surface
of the pool. And then? Something would
emerge. A hand would be shoved up, a blade
would be flashed. It was nonsense of course.

A curious notion came to her that he did after
all hear the things she could not say. tie was an
inscrutable old man, with the yellow stain on his
beard, and his poetry, and his puzzles, sailing
serenely through a world which satisfied all his
wants, so that she thought he had only to put
down his hand where he lay on the lawn to fish
up anything he wanted. She looked at her
picture. That would have been his answer,
presumably—how “ you ” and “ I ” and “ she ”
pass and vanish; nothing stays; all changes; but
not words, not paint. Yet it would be hung in
the attics, she thought; it would be rolled up and
flung under a sofa; yet even so, even of a picture
like that, it was true. One might say, even of
this scrawl, not of that actual picture, perhaps,
but of what it attempted, that it “ remained for
ever ”, she was going to say, or, for the words
spoken sounded even to herself, too boastful, to
hint, wordlessly; when, looking at the picture, she
was surprised to find that she could not see it.
Her eyes were full of a hot liquid (she did not
think of tears at first) which, without disturbing

THE LIGHTHOUSE

the firmness of her lips, made the air thick, rolled
down her cheeks. She had perfect control of
herself—Oh yes!—in every other way. Was she
crying then for Mrs. Ramsay, without being
aware of any unhappiness? She addressed old
Mr. Carmichael again. What was it then? What
did it mean? Could things thrust their hands up
and grip one; could the blade cut; the fist grasp?
Was there no safety? No learning by heart of the
ways of the world? No guide, no shelter, but all
was miracle, and leaping from the pinnacle of a
tower into the air? Could it be, even for elderly
people, that this was life?—startling, unexpected,
unknown? For one moment she felt that if they
both got up, here, now on the lawn, and demanded
an explanation, why was it so short, why was it
so inexplicable, said it with violence, as two fully
equipped human beings from whom nothing should
be hid might speak, then, beauty would roll itself
up; the space would fill; those empty flourishes
would form into shape; if they shouted loud enough
Mrs. Ramsay would return. “ Mrs. Ramsay! ”
she said aloud, “ Mrs. Ramsay! ” The tears ran
down her face.

7

[Macalister’s boy took one of the fish and cut
a square out of its side to bait his hook with. The

277

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

mutilated body (it was alive still) was thrown back
into the sea.]

8

“ Mrs. Ramsay! ” Lily cried, “ Mrs. Ramsay!”
But nothing happened. The pain increased.
That anguish could reduce one to such a pitch of
imbecility, she thought! Anyhow the old man
had not heard her. He remained benignant,
calm—if one chose to think it, sublime. Heaven
be praised, no one had heard her cry that igno¬
minious cry, stop pain, stop! She had not
obviously taken leave of her senses. No one had
seen her step off her strip of board into the waters
of annihilation. She remained a skimpy old maid,
holding a paint-brush on the lawn. ’

And now slowly the pain of the want, and the
bitter anger (to be called back, just as she thought
she would never feel sorrow for Mrs. Ramsay
again. Had she missed her among the coffee
cups at breakfast? not in the least) lessened; and
of their anguish left, as antidote, a relief that was
balm in itself, and also, but more mysteriously,
a sense of some one there, of Mrs. Ramsay, re¬
lieved for a moment of the weight that the world
had put on her, staying lightly by her side and
then (for this was Mrs. Ramsay in all her beauty)

raising to her forehead a wreath of white flowers
278

THE LIGHTHOUSE

f

i

with which she went. Lily squeezed her tubes
again. She attacked that problem of the hedge.
It was strange how clearly she saw her, stepping
with her usual quickness across fields among whose
folds, purplish and soft, among whose flowers,
hyacinths or lilies, she vanished. It was some
trick of the painter’s eye. For days after she had
heard of her death she had seen her thus, putting
her wreath to her forehead and going unquestion-
ingly with her companion, a shadow, across the
fields. The sight, the phrase, had its power to
console. Wherever she happened to be, painting,
here, in the country or in London, the vision would
come to her, and her eyes, half closing, sought
something to base her vision on. She looked
down the railway carriage, the omnibus; took
a line from shoulder or cheek; looked at the
windows opposite; at Piccadilly, lamp-strung in
the evening. All had been part of the fields of
death. But always something—it might be a face,
a voice, a paper boy crying Standard, News —
thrust through, snubbed her, waked her, required
and got in the end an effort of attention, so that
the vision must be perpetually remade. Now
again, moved as she was by some instinctive need
of distance and blue, she looked at the bay beneath
her, making hillocks of the blue bars of the waves,
and stony fields of the purpler spaces. Again she

279

* ^ i «£,

i HOUSE

was roused as usual by somethin •

There was a brown snot in tu S mcon gnious.

It was a boat. | es b e ,™ ddle ° f the
a second. But whose boa^ *? **

she replied. Mr. Ramsay th,' R y s boat .
marched past her, with hhf’hinrl "j Wh ° iad
tie head of a pr^cessL b a '° of ' “

asking her for sympathy,’ which^e'Tafrrfused’
The boat was now halfway across the bay '

wind he« ami ZrT^T^ a ^ <*

all one fabric, as iSf^U^hth^ ^

Sky, or the clouds had droooed d “ P tlle

A steamer far out at sei had d '" t0 ^
great scroll of smoke which stayed th'” ““ ™ “
and circling decoratively as if. ’ C curv,n *
puae which held things’and kept * ”"7,

its mesh, only nentlv <L, , P ™ so % ln

that. And as hann tlen ‘ tb ls way and

weather is * 7,77 wi “ ‘he

were conscious of the ships ‘ f ‘’“l’

as if drey were conscious^ ' PS
signalled to each other S nm P ff 5 aS lf they
their own. For somet, messa & e of

fore, ,he n g rth::r;red q “is c ’ ose to the

tie haze a n enormous distance away. m ° rmng 10

looking or^a/thr^h^ th ° Ugit '

280 Was that very old

t

the lighthouse

man who had gone past her silently,
brown paper parcel under his arm?
was in the middle of the bay.

holding a
The boat

9

They don’t feel a thing there, Cam thought,
ooking at the shore, which, rising and falling,
became steadily more distant and more peaceful.
Her hand cut a trail in the sea, as her mind
made the green swirls and streaks into patterns
and, numbed and shrouded, wandered in imagina¬
tion in that underworld of waters where the pearls
stuck in clusters to white sprays, where in the
green light a change came over one’s entire mind
and one’s body shone half transparent enveloped
m a green cloak. r

Then the eddy slackened round her hand
The rush of the water ceased; the world became
full of little creaking and squeaking sounds. One
heard the waves breaking and flapping against
the side of the boat as if they were anchored in
harbour. Everything became very close to one.
For the sail, upon which James had his eyes fixed
until it had become to him like a person whom
he knew, sagged entirely; there they came to a
stop, flapping about waiting for a breeze, in the
hot sun, miles from shore, miles from the Light-

281

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

house. Everything in the whole world seemed ^
to stand still. The Lighthouse became immov¬
able, and the line of the distant shore became

fixed. The sun grew hotter and everybody seemed

to come very close together and to feel each other’s
presence, which they had almost forgotten.
Macalister’s fishing line went plumb down into
the sea. But Mr. Ramsay went on reading with
his legs curled under him.

He was reading a little shiny book with covers
mottled like a plover’s egg. Now and again, as
they hung about in that horrid calm, he turned
a page. And James felt that each page was i
turned with a peculiar gesture aimed at him: now 1
assertively, now commandingly; now with the
intention of making people pity him; and all the ^
time, as his father read and turned one after '
another of those little pages, James kept dreading |
the moment, when he would look up and speak j
sharply to him about something or other. Why I
were they lagging about here? he would demand, f
or something quite unreasonable like that. And ?
if he does, James thought, then I shall take a
knife and strike him to the heart.

.He had always kept this old symbol of taking a • j

knife and striking his father to the heart. Only |
now, as he grew older, and sat staring at his

father in an impotent rage, it was not him, that
282

THE LIGHTHOUSE

old man reading, whom he wanted to kill, but it
was the thing that descended on him—without
his knowing it perhaps: that fierce sudden
black-winged harpy, with its talons and its beak
all cold and hard, that struck and struck at you
(he could feel the beak on his bare legs, where it
had struck when he was a child) and then made
off, and there he was again, an old man, very sad,
reading his book. That he would kill, that he
would strike to the heart. W hatever he did—
(and he might do anything, he felt, looking at the
Lighthouse and the distant shore) whether he
was in a business, in a bank, a barrister, a man
at the head of some enterprise, that he would
fight, that he would track clown and stamp out—-
tyranny, despotism, he called it- -mmking people
do what they did not want to tin, c utting off their
right to speak. How could any of them say.
But I won’t, when he said, Cotne to the Light¬
house. Do this. Fetch me that. The black
wings spread, and the hard beak fore. And then
next moment, there he sat reading his book; and
he might look up—one never knew-—quite
reasonably. He might talk n> the Macalisters.
He might be pressing a sovereign into some-
frozen old woman’s hand in the street, James
thought; he might be shmuiio out at some
fisherman’s sports; he might he waving his arms

283

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

in the air with excitement. Or he might sit at the
head of the table dead silent from one end of
dinner to the other. Yes, thought James, while
the boat slapped and dawdled there in the hot
sun; there was a waste of snow and rock very
lonely and austere; and there he had come to
feel, quite often lately, when his father said
something which surprised the others, were two
pairs of footprints only; his own and his father’s.
They alone knew each other. What then was
this terror, this hatred? Turning back among
the many leaves which the past had folded in
him, peering into the heart of that forest
where light and shade so chequer each other
that all shape is distorted, and one blunders,
now with the sun in one’s eyes, now with a *
dark shadow, he sought an image to cool and
detach and round off his feeling in a concrete t
shape. Suppose then that as a child sitting I
helpless in a perambulator, or on someone’s j

knee, he had seen a waggon crush ignorantly j

and innocently, someone’s foot? Suppose he had . i
seen the foot first, in the grass, smooth, and whole; 1!

then the wheel; and the same foot, purple,
crushed. But the wheel was innocent. So now,
when his father came striding down the passage
knocking them up early in the morning to go to
the Lighthouse down it came over his foot, over
284

the lighthouse

Cam’s foot, over anybody’s foot. One sat and
watched it.

But whose foot was he thinking of, and in what
garden did all this happen? For one had settings
for these scenes; trees that grew there; flowers;
a certain light; a few figures. Everything tended
to set itself in a garden where there was none of
this gloom and none of this throwing of hands
about; people spoke in an ordinary tone of voice.
They went in and out all day long. There was an
old woman gossiping in the kitchen; and the
blinds were sucked in and out by the breeze; all
was blowing, all was growing; and over all those
plates and bowls and tall brandishing red and
yellow flowers a very thin yellow veil would be
drawn, like a vine leaf, at night. Things became
stiller and darker at night. But the leaf-like
veil was so fine that lights lifted it, voices
crinkled it; he could see through it a figure
stooping, hear, coming close, going away, some
dress rustling, some chain tinkling.

It was in this world that the wheel went over the
person s foot. Something, he remembered, stayed
and darkened over him; would not move; some-
thing flourished up in the air, something arid and
sharp descended even there, like a blade, a scimitar,
smiting through the leaves and flowers even of
tha.t happy world and making them shrivel and fall .

285

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

“ It will rain,” he remembered his father ■?'
saying. “ You won’t be able to go to the
Lighthouse.”

The Lighthouse was then a silvery, misty-
looking tower with a yellow eye that opened
suddenly and softly in the evening. Now—

James looked at the Lighthouse. He could
see the white-washed rocks; the tower, stark and
straight; he could see that it was barred with
black and white; he could see windows in it; he
could even see washing spread on the rocks to dry.

So that was the Lighthouse, was it?

No, the other was also the Lighthouse. For i
nothing was simply one thing. The other was
the Lighthouse too. It was sometimes hardly to
be seen across the bay. In the evening one "f
looked up and saw the eye opening and shutting f
and the light seemed to reach them in that airy j
sunny garden where they sat.

But he pulled himself up. Whenever he said
they or “ a person ”, and then began hearing
the rustle of some one coming, the tinkle of some
one going, he became extremely sensitive to the
presence of whoever might be in the room. It !

was his father now. The strain became acute. '

For in one moment if there was no breeze,
his father would slap the covers of his book to¬
gether, and say: “ What’s happening now? What
286 ■ '

THE LIGHTHOUSE

1 father
to the

misty-

opened

: could
rk and
i with

it; he
to dry.

For
r was
% to
£ one
itting
t airy

said
iring
some
i the
. It
:ute.
;eze,
to-
diat

are we dawdling about here for, eh? ” as, once
before he had brought his blade down among them
on the terrace and she had gone stiff all over, and if
there had been an axe handy, a knife, or anything
with a sharp point he would have seized it and
struck his father through the heart. His mother
had gone stiff all over, and then, her arm slacken-
ing, so that he felt she listened to him no longer,
she had risen somehow and gone away and left
him there, impotent, ridiculous, sitting on the
floor grasping a pair of scissors.

Not a breath of wind blew. The water
chuckled and gurgled in the bottom of the boat
where three or four mackerel beat their tails up
and down in a pool of water not deep enough to
cover them. At any moment Mr. Ramsay ( lames
scarcely dared look at him) might rouse himself,
shut his book, and say something sharp; but for
the moment he was reading, so that James
stealthily, as if he were stealing downstairs on bare
feet, afraid of waking a watch-dog by a creaking
board, went on thinking what was she like, where
did she go that day? He began following her
from room to room and at last they c.unc u> :l
room where in a blue light, as if the reflection
came from many china dishes, she talked to some¬
body; he listened to her talking. She talked to
a servant, -saying simply whatever came into her

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

head. “ We shall need a big dish to-night.
Where is it—the blue dish? ” She alone spoke
the truth; to her alone could he speak it. That
was the source of her everlasting attraction for
him, perhaps; she was a person to whom one
could say what came into one’s head. But all the
time he thought of her, he was conscious of
his father following his thought, shadowing it,
making it shiver and falter.

At last he ceased to think; there he sat with
his hand on the tiller in the sun, staring at the
Lighthouse, powerless to move, powerless to flick
off these grains of misery which settled on his
mind one after another. A rope seemed to
bind him there, and his father had knotted it
and he could only escape by taking a knife
and plunging it. . . . But at that moment the
sail swung slowly round, filled slowly out, the
boat seemed fo shake herself, and then to move
off half conscious in her sleep, and then she
woke and shot through the waves. The relief was
extraordinary. They all seemed to fall away from
each other again and to be at their ease and the
fishing-lines slanted taut across the side of the
boat. But his father did not rouse himself. He
only raised his right hand mysteriously high in
the air, and let it fall upon his knee again as if he
were conducting some secret symphony.

288

THE LIGHTHOUSE

:o-night.
e spoke
That
tion for
om one
■t all the
:ious of
ving it,

sat with
£ at the
to flick
on his
ned to
otted it
a knife
ent the
>ut, the
o move
ten she
lief was
ay from
and the
of the
If. He
high in
as if he

10

[The sea without a stain on it, thought Lily
Briscoe, still standing and looking out over the
bay. The sea is stretched like silk across the bay.
Distance had an extraordinary power; they had
been swallowed up in it, she felt, they were gone
for ever, they had become part of the nature of
things. It was so calm; it was so quiet. The
steamer itself had vanished, but the great scroll
of smoke still hung in the air and drooped like
a flag mournfully in valediction.]

11

It was like that then, the island, thought Cam,
once more drawing her fingers through the waves.
She had never seen it from out at sea before. It
lay like that on the sea, did it, with a dent in the
middle and two sharp crags, and the sea swept in
there, and spread away for miles and miles on
either side of the island. It was very small;
shaped something like a leaf stood on end. So
we took a little boat, she thought, beginning to
tell herself a story of adventure about escaping
from a sinking ship. But with the sea streaming
through her fingers, a spray of seaweed vanishing
behind them, she did not want to tell herself
T 289

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

seriously a story; it was the sense of adventure
and escape that she wanted, for she was thinking,
as the boat sailed on, how her father’s anger about
the points of the compass, James’s obstinacy about
the compact, and her own anguish, all had slipped,
all had passed, all had streamed away. What then
came next? Where were they going? From her
hand, ice cold, held deep in the sea, there spurted
up a fountain of joy at the change, at the escape,
at the adventure (that she should be alive, that she
should be there). And the drops falling from this
sudden and unthinking fountain of joy fell here
and there on the dark, the slumbrous shapes in
her mind; shapes of a world not realised but
turning in their darkness, catching here and there,
a spark of light; Greece, Rome, Constantinople.
Small as it was, and shaped something like a leaf
stood on end with the gold sprinkled waters
flowing in and about it, it had, she supposed, a
place in the universe—even that little island?
The old gentlemen in the study she thought
could have told her. Sometimes she strayed in
from the garden purposely to catch them at it.
There they were (it might be Mr. Carmichael or
Mr. Bankes, very old, very stiff) sitting opposite
each other in their low arm-chairs. They were
crackling in front of them the pages of The
Times , when she came in from the garden, all in
290

dventure v
Linking,

;er about
.cy about
. slipped,
hat then
'rom her
spurted
: escape,
that she
rom this
fell here
rapes in
ised but
id there,
itinople. ■
ie a leaf
[ waters
posed, a
island?
thought
rayed in
m at it.
chael or
opposite
.ey were
of The
:n, all in

THE LIGHTHOUSE

a muddle, about something some one had said
about Christ; a mammoth had been dug up in
a London street; what was the great Napoleon
like? Then they took all this with their clean
hands (they wore grey coloured clothes; they
smelt of heather) and they brushed the scraps
together, turning the paper, crossing their- knees,
and said something now and then very brief.
In a kind of trance she would take a book from
the shelf and stand there, watching her father
write, so equally, so neatly from one side of the
page to another, with a little cough now and then,
or something said briefly to the other old gentle¬
man opposite. And she thought, standing there
with her book open, here one could let whatever
one thought expand like a leaf in water; and if it
did well here, among the old gentlemen smoking
and The Times crackling, then it was right. And
watching her father as he wrote in his study, she
thought (now sitting in the boat) he was most
lovable, he was most wise; he was not vain nor
a tyrant. Indeed, if he saw she was there,
reading a book, he would ask her, as gently
as any one could, Was there nothing he could
give her?

Lest this should be wrong, she looked at him
reading the little book with the shiny cover
mottled like a plover’s egg. No; it was right.

291

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

Look at him now, she wanted to say aloud to
James. (But James had his eye on the sail.)
He is a sarcastic brute, James would say. He'
brings the talk round to himself and his books,!
James would say. He is intolerably egotistical!
Worst of all, he is a tyrant. But look! she!
said, looking at him. Look at him now. She'
looked at him reading the little book with his
legs curled; the little book whose yellowish pages
she knew, without knowing what was written
on them. It was small; it was closely printed;
on the fly-leaf, she knew, he had written that he
had spent fifteen francs on dinner; the wine had
been so much; he had given so much to the
waiter; all was added up neatly at the bottom of
the page. But what might be written in the book
which had rounded its edges off in his pocket, she
did not know. What he thought they none of
them knew. But he was absorbed in it, so that
when he looked up, as he did now for an instant, it
was not to see anything; it was to pin down some
thought more exactly. That done, his mind

flew back again and he plunged into his reading.
He read, she thought, as if he were guiding some-
thing, or wheedling a large flock of sheep, or
pushing his way up and up a single narrow path;
and sometimes he went fast and straight, and broke

his way through the thicket, and sometimes it
292

THE LIGHTHOUSE

r aloud to
the sail.)
say. He |
hs books,!
gotistical.
ook! shei
She 1
with his
ish pages
written
printed;
that he
fine had
to the
'ttom of
ae book
ket, she
aone of
so that
stant, it
n some
mind
fading.

' some-
ep, or
'path;
broke
tnes it ’

seemed a branch struck at him, a bramble blinded
him, but he was not going to let himself be
beaten by that; on he went, tossing over page
after page. And she went on telling herself a
story about escaping from a sinking ship, for
she was safe, while he sat there; safe, as she
felt herself when she crept in from the garden,
an,d took a book down, and the old gentleman,
lowering the paper suddenly, said something
very brief over the top of it about the character
of Napoleon.

She gazed back over the sea, at the island.
But the leaf was losing its sharpness. It was very
small; it was very distant. The sea was more
important now than the shore. Waves were all
round them, tossing and sinking, with a log
wallowing down one wave; a gull riding on
another. About here, she thought, dabbling her
fingers in the water, a ship had sunk, and she
murmured, dreamily, half asleep, how we perished,
each alone.

12

So much depends then, thought Lily Briscoe,
looking at the sea which had scarcely a stain on it,
which was so soft that the sails and the clouds
seemed set in its blue, so much depends, she
thought, upon distance: whether people are near

293

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

us or far from us; for her feeling for Mr. Ramsay
changed as he sailed further and further across
the bay. It seemed to be elongated, stretched out;
he seemed to become more and more remote. He
and his children seemed to be swallowed up in
that blue, that distance; but here, on the lawn,
close at hand, Mr. Carmichael suddenly grunted.
She laughed. He clawed his book up from the
grass. He settled into his chair again puffing and
blowing like some sea monster. That was different
altogether, because he was so near. And now
again all was quiet. They must be out of bed by
this time, she supposed, looking at the house, but
nothing appeared there. But then, she remem¬
bered, they had always made off directly a meal
was over, on business of their own. It was all in
keeping with this silence, this emptiness, and the
unreality of the early morning hour. It was a way
things had sometimes, she thought, lingering for a
moment and looking at the long glittering windows
and the plume of blue smoke: they became
unreal. So coming back from a journey, or after
an illness, before habits had spun themselves
across the surface, one felt that same unreality,
which was so startling; felt something emerge.
Life was most vivid then. One could be at one’s
ease. Mercifully one need not say, very briskly,
crossing the lawn to greet old Mrs. Beckwith, who
294

THE LIGHTHOUSE

would be coming out to find a corner to sit in,
“ Oh good-morning, Mrs. Beckwith! What a
lovely day! Are you going to be so bold as to sit
in the sun? Jasper’s hidden the chairs. Do let me
find you one! ” and all the rest of the usual
chatter. One need not speak at all. One glided,
one shook one’s sails (there was a good deal of
movement in the bay, boats were starting off)
between things, beyond things. Empty it was not,
but full to the brim. She seemed to be standing
up to the lips in some substance, to move and
float and sink in it, yes, for these waters were un-
fathomably deep. Into them had spilled so many
lives. The Ramsays’; the children’s; and all
sorts of waifs and strays of things besides. A
washerwoman with her basket; a rook; a red-hot
poker; the purples and grey-greens of flowers:
some common feeling which held the whole
together.

It was some such feeling of completeness
perhaps which, ten years ago, standing almost
where she stood now, had made her say that she
must be in love with the place. Love had a
thousand shapes. There might be lovers whose
gift it was to choose out the elements of things
and place them together and so, giving them a
wholeness not theirs in life, make of some scene,
or meeting of people (all now gone and separate),

295

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

one of those globed compacted things over which
thought lingers, and love plays.

Her eyes rested on the brown speck of Mr.
Ramsay’s sailing boat. They would be at the
Lighthouse by lunch time she supposed. But the
wind had freshened, and, as the sky changed
slightly and the sea changed slightly and the
boats altered their positions, the view, which a
moment before had seemed miraculously fixed,
was now unsatisfactory. The wind had blown the
trail of smoke about; there was something dis¬
pleasing about the placing of the ships.

The disproportion there seemed to upset some
harmony in her own mind. She felt an obscure
distress. It was confirmed when she turned to
her picture. She had been wasting her morning.
For whatever reason she could not achieve that
razor edge of balance between two opposite
forces; Mr. Ramsay and the picture; which was
necessary. There was something perhaps wrong
with the design? Was it, she wondered, that the
line of the wall wanted breaking, was it that the
mass of the trees was too heavy? She smiled
ironically; for had she not thought, when she
began, that she had solved her problem?

What was the problem then? She must try to
get hold of something that evaded her. It evaded
her when she thought of Mrs. Ramsay; it evaded
296

THE LIGHTHOUSE

her now when she thought of her picture. Phrases
came. Visions came. Beautiful pictures. Beautiful
phrases. But what she wished to get hold of was
that very jar on the nerves, the thing itself before
it has been made anything. Get that and start
afresh; get that and start afresh; she said
desperately, pitching herself firmly again before
her easel. It was a miserable machine, an in¬
efficient machine, she thought, the human appar¬
atus for painting or for feeling; it always broke
down at the critical moment; heroically, one must
force it on. She stared, frowning. There was the
hedge, sure enough. But one got nothing by
soliciting urgently. One got only a glare in the
eye from looking at the line of the wall, or from
thinking—she wore a grey hat. She was aston¬
ishingly beautiful. Let it come, she thought, if
it will come. For there are moments when one
can neither think nor feel. And if one can neither
think nor feel, she thought, where is one?

Here on the grass, on the ground, she thought,
sitting down, and examining with her brush a
little colony of plantains. For the lawn was very
rough. Here sitting on the world, she thought,
for she could not shake herself free from the sense
that everything this morning was happening for
the first time, perhaps for the last time, as a
traveller, even though he is half asleep, knows,

297

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

looking out of the train window, that he must
look now, for he will never see that town, or
that mule-cart, or that woman at work in the
fields, again. The lawn was the world; they were
up here together, on this exalted station, she
thought, looking at old Mr. Carmichael, who
seemed (though they had not said a word all this
time) to share her thoughts. And she would
never see him again perhaps. He was growing
old. Also, she remembered, smiling at the slipper
that dangled from his foot, he was growing
famous. People said that his poetry was “ so
beautiful.” They went and published things he
had written forty years ago. There was a famous
man now called Carmichael, she smiled, thinking
how many shapes one person might wear, how he
was that in the newspapers, but here the same
as he had always been. He looked the same—
greyer, rather. Yes, he looked the same, but
somebody had said, she recalled, that when he
had heard of Andrew Ramsay’s death (he was
killed in a second by a shell; he should have been
a gieat mathematician) Mr. Carmichael had “ lost
all interest in life.” What did it mean—that?
she wondered. Had he marched through Tra¬
falgar Square grasping a big stick? Had he
turned pages over and over, without reading them,
sitting in his room in St. John’s Wood alone?

the lighthouse

She did not know what he had done, when he
heard that Andrew was killed, but she felt it in
him all the same. They only mumbled at each
other on staircases; they looked up at the sky
and said it will be fine or it won’t be fine. But
this was one way of knowing people, she thought:
to know the outline, not the detail, to sit in one’s
garden and look at the slopes of a hill running
purple down into the distant heather. She knew
him in that way. She knew that he had changed
somehow. She had never read a line of his poetry.
She thought that she knew how it went though,
slowly and sonorously. It was seasoned and
mellow. It was about the desert and the camel.
It was about the palm tree and the sunset. It was
extremely impersonal; it said something about
death; it said very little about love. There was an
aloofness about him. He wanted very little of
other people. Had he not always lurched rather
awkwardly past the drawing-room window with
some newspaper under his arm, trying to avoid
Mrs. Ramsay whom for some reason he did not
much like? On that account, of course, she would
always try to make him stop. He would bow to
her. He would halt unwillingly and bow pro¬
foundly. Annoyed that he did not want anything
of her, Mrs. Ramsay would ask him (Lily could
hear her) wouldn’t he like a coat, a rug, a news-

299

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

paper? No, he wanted nothing. (Here he bowed.)
There was some quality in her which he did not
much like. It was perhaps her masterfulness, her
positiveness, something matter-of-fact in her. She
was so direct.

(A noise drew her attention to the drawing¬
room window—the squeak of a hinge. The light
breeze was toying with the window.)

There must have been people who disliked her
very much, Lily thought (Yes; she realised that
the drawing-room step was empty, but it had no
effect on her whatever. She did not want Mrs.
Ramsay now).—People who thought her too sure,
too drastic. Also her beauty offended people
probably. How monotonous, they would say,
and the same always! They preferred another
type—the dark, the vivacious. Then she was
weak with her husband. She let him make those
scenes. Then she was reserved. Nobody knew
exactly what had happened to her. And (to go
back to Mr. Carmichael and his dislike) one
could not imagine Mrs. Ramsay standing paint¬
ing, lying reading, a whole morning on the lawn.
It was unthinkable. Without saying a word, the
only token of her errand a basket on her arm,
she went off to the town, to the poor, to sit in
some stuffy little bedroom. Often and often Lily
had seen her go silently in the midst of some

300

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m

THE LIGHTHOUSE

game, some discussion, with her basket on her
arm, very upright. She had noted her return.
She had thought, half laughing (she was so
methodical with the tea cups) half moved (her
beauty took one’s breath away), eyes that are
closing in pain have looked on you. You have
been with them there.

And then Mrs. Ramsay would be annoyed
because somebody was late, or the butter not
fresh, or the teapot chipped. And all the time
she was saying that the butter was not fresh one
would be thinking of Greek temples, and how
beauty had been with them there. She never
talked of it—she went, punctually, directly. It was
her instinct to go, an instinct like the swallows for
the south, the artichokes for the sun, turning her
infallibly to the human race, making her nest in
its heart. And this, like all instincts, was a little
distressing to people who did not share it; to
Mr. Carmichael perhaps, to herself certainly.
Some notion was in both of them about the
ineffectiveness of action, the supremacy of thought.
Her going was a reproach to them, gave a different
twist to the world, so that they were led to protest,
seeing their own prepossessions disappear, and
clutch at them vanishing. Charles Tansley did
that too: it was part of the reason why one dis¬
liked him. He upset the proportions of one’s

301

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

world. And what had happened to him, she
wondered, idly stirring the plantains with her
brush. He had got his fellowship. He had
married; he lived at Golder’s Green.

. She had g° ne one day into a Hall and heard
him speaking during the war. He was denouncing
something: he was condemning somebody. He
was preaching brotherly love. And all she felt
was how could he love his kind who did not know
one picture from another, who had stood behind
her smoking shag (“ fivepence an ounce, Miss
Briscoe ) and making it his business to tell her
women can’t write, women can’t paint, not so
much that he believed it, as that for some odd
reason he wished it? There he was, lean and red
and raucous, preaching love from a platform
(there, were ants crawling about among the
plantains which she disturbed with her brush-
red, energetic ants, rather like Charles Tansley).
She had looked at him ironically from her seat in
the half-empty hall, pumping love into that chilly
space, and suddenly, there was the old cask or
whatever it was bobbing up and down among the
waves and Mrs. Ramsay looking for her spectacle
case among the pebbles. “ Oh dear! What a
nuisance! Lost again. Don’t bother, Mr.

ansley. I lose thousands every summer,” at

which he pressed his chin back against his collar,
302 ’

THE LIGHTHOUSE

as if afraid to sanction such exaggeration, but
could stand it in her whom he liked, and smiled
very charmingly. He must have confided in her
on one of those long expeditions when people
got separated and walked back alone. He
was educating his little sister, Mrs. Ramsay had
told her. It was immensely to his credit. Her
own idea of him was grotesque, Lily knew well,
stirring the plantains with her brush. Half one’s
notions of other people were, after all, grotesque.
They served private purposes of one’s own. He
did for her instead of a whipping-boy. She found
herself flagellating his lean flanks when she was
out of temper. If she wanted to be serious about
him she had to help herself to Mrs. Ramsay’s
sayings, to look at him through her eyes.

She raised a little mountain for the ants to
climb over. She reduced them to a frenzy of
indecision by this interference in their cosmogony.
Some ran this way, others that.

One wanted fifty pairs of eyes to see with, she
reflected. Fifty pairs of eyes were not enough to
get round that one woman with, she thought.
Among them, must be one that was stone blind
to her beauty. One wanted most some secret
sense, fine as air, with which to steal through
keyholes and surround her where she sat knitting,
talking, sitting silent in the window alone; which

3°3

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

took to itself and treasured up like the air which
held the smoke of the steamer, her thoughts her
imaginations, her desires. What did the hedge
mean to her, what did the garden mean to
her, what did it mean to her when a wave
broke? (Lily looked up, as she had seen Mrs
Ramsay look up; she too heard a wave falling on
the beach.) And then what stirred and trembled
in her mind when the children cried, “ How’s
that?_ How’s that? ” cricketing? She 4ould stop
knitting for a second. She would look intent.
Then she would lapse again, and suddenly Mr’
Ramsay stopped dead in his pacing in front of her'
and some curious shock passed through her and
seemed to rock her in profound agitation on its
breast when stopping there he stood over her

and looked down at her. Lily could see him ’

He stretched out his hand and raised her from
her chair. It seemed somehow as if he had done
it before; as if he had once bent in the same way
and raised her from a boat which, lying a f e ^
inches off some island, had required that the ladies
should thus be helped on shore by the gentlemen
An old-fashioned scene that was, which required’
very nearly, crinolines and peg-top trousers’
Letting herself be helped by him, Mrs. R amS ay
had thought (Lily supposed) the time has coml
now; Yes, she would say it now. Yes, she would
304

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to

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P

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• 3

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7

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marry him. And she stepped slowly, quietly on
shore. Probably she said one word only, letting
her hand rest still in his. I will marry you, she
might have said, with her hand in his; but no
more. Time after time the same thrill had passed
between them—obviously it had, Lily thought,
smoothing a way for her ants. She was not
inventing; she was only trying to smooth out
something she had been given years ago folded
up; something she had seen. For in the rough
and tumble of daily life, with all those children
about, all those visitors, one had constantly a sense
of repetition—of one thing falling where another
had fallen, and so setting up an echo which
chimed in the air and made it full of vibrations.

But it would be a mistake, she thought,
thinking how they walked off together, she in her
green shawl, he with his tie flying, arm in arm,
past the greenhouse, to simplify their relationship.
It was no monotony of bliss—she with her
impulses and quicknesses; he with his shudders
and glooms. Oh no. The bedroom door would
slam violently early in the morning. He would
start from the table in a temper. He would
whizz his plate through the window. Then all
through the house there would be a sense of
doors slamming and blinds fluttering as if a
gusty wind were blowing and people scudded

3°5

u

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

about trying in a hasty way to fasten hatches
and make things shipshape. She had met Paul
Rayley like that one day on the stairs. They had
laughed and laughed, like a couple of children,
all because Mr. Ramsay, finding an earwig in his
milk at breakfast had sent the whole thing flying
through the air on to the terrace outside. “ An
earwig,” Prue murmured, awestruck, “in his
milk.” Other people might find centipedes.
But he had built round him such a fence of
sanctity, and occupied the space with such a
demeanour of majesty that an earwig in his milk
was a monster.

But it tired Mrs. Ramsay, it cowed her a little
—the plates whizzing and the doors slamming.
And there would fall between them sometimes
long rigid silences, when, in a state of mind which
annoyed Lily in her, half plaintive, half resentful,
she seemed unable to surmount the tempest
calmly, or to laugh as they laughed, but in her
weariness perhaps concealed something. She
brooded and sat silent. After a time he would
hang stealthily about the places where she was
—roaming under the window where she sat
writing letters or talking, for she would take care
to be busy when he passed, and evade him, and
pretend not to see him. Then he would turn
smooth as silk, affable, urbane, and try to win her
306

THE LIGHTHOUSE

so. Still she would hold off, and now she would
assert for a brief season some of those prides and
airs the due of her beauty which she was generally
utterly without; would turn her head; would look
so, over her shoulder, always with some Minta,
Paul, or William Bankes at her side. At length,
standing outside the group the very figure of a
famished wolfhound (Lily got up off the grass and
stood looking at the steps, at the window, where
she had seen him), he would say her name, once
only, for all the world like a wolf barking in the
snow, but still she held back; and he would say
it once more, and this time something in the tone
would rouse her, and she would go to him, leaving
them all of a sudden, and they would walk off
together among the pear trees, the cabbages,
and the raspberry beds. They would have it out
together. But with what attitudes and with what
words? Such a dignity was theirs in this relation¬
ship that, turning away, she and Paul and Minta
would hide their curiosity and their discomfort,
and begin picking flowers, throwing balls, chat¬
tering, until it was time for dinner, and there
they were, he at one end of the table, she at the
other, as usual.

“ Why don’t some of you take up botany? . . .
With all those legs and arms why doesn’t one of
you . . .? ” So they would talk as usual, laugh-

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

ing, among the children. All would be as usual,
save only for some quiver, as of a blade in the air’
which came and went between them as if the
usual sight of the children sitting round their
soup plates had freshened itself in their eyes after
that hour among the pears and the cabbages.
Especially, Lily thought, Mrs. Ramsay would
glance at Prue. She sat in the middle between
brothers and sisters, always so occupied, it
seemed, seeing that nothing went wrong that she
scarcely spoke herself. How Prue must have
blamed herself for that earwig in the milk! How
white she had gone when Mr. Ramsay threw his
plate through the window! How she drooped
under those long silences between them! Any¬
how, her mother now would seem to be making
it up to her; assuring her that everything was
well; promising her that one of these days that
same happiness would be hers. She had enjoyed
it for less than a year, however.

She had let the flowers fall from her basket,
Lily thought, screwing up her eyes and standing
back as if to look at her picture, which she was
not touching, however, with all her faculties in a
trance, frozen over superficially but moving
underneath with extreme speed.

She let her flowers fall from her basket,
scattered and tumbled them on to the grass and
308

THE LIGHTHOUSE

reluctantly and hesitatingly, but without question
or complaint—had she not the faculty of obedience
to perfection?—went too. Down fields, across
valleys, white, flower-strewn—that was how she
would have painted it. The hills were austere.
It was rocky; it was steep. The waves sounded
hoarse on the stones beneath. They went, the
three of them together, Mrs. Ramsay walking
rather fast in front, as if she expected to meet
some one round the corner.

Suddenly the window at which she was looking
was whitened by some light stuff behind it. At
last then somebody had come into the drawing¬
room; somebody was sitting in the chair. For
Heaven’s sake, she prayed, let them sit still there
and not come floundering out to talk to her.
Mercifully, whoever it was stayed still inside;
had settled by some stroke of luck so as to throw
an odd-shaped triangular shadow over the step.
It altered the composition of the picture a little-
It was interesting. It might be useful. Her
mood was coming back to her. One must keep
on looking without for a second relaxing the
intensity of emotion, the determination not to be
put off, not to be bamboozled. One must hold
the scene—so—in a vice and let nothing come in
and spoil it. One wanted, she thought, dipping
her brush deliberately, to be on a level with

3°9

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

ordinary experience, to feel simply that’s a chair,
that s a table, and yet at the same time, It’s a
miracle, it’s an ecstasy. The problem might be
solved after all. Ah, but what had happened?
Some wave of white went over the window pane.
The air must have stirred some flounce in the
room. Her heart leapt at her and seized her and
tortured her.

“ Mrs. Ramsay! Mrs. Ramsay! ” she cried,
feeling the old horror come back—to want and
want and not to have. Could she inflict that still?
And then, quietly, as if she refrained, that too
became part of ordinary experience, was on a level
with the chair, with the table. Mrs. Ramsay—it
was part of her perfect goodness to Lily—sat
there quite simply, in the chair, flicked her
needles to and fro, knitted her reddish-brown
stocking, cast her shadow on the step. There
she sat.

And as if she had something she must share,
yet could hardly leave her easel, so full her mind
was of what she was thinking, of what she was
seeing, Lily went past Mr. Carmichael holding
her brush to the edge of the lawn. Where

was that boat now? Mr, Ramsay? She wanted
him.

THE LIGHTHOUSE

T 3

Mr. Ramsay had almost done reading. One
hand hovered over the page as if to be in readiness
to turn it the very instant he had finished it. He
sat there bareheaded with the wind blowing his
hair about, extraordinarily exposed to everything.
He looked very old. He looked, James thought,
getting his head now against the Lighthouse, now
against the waste of waters running away into the
open, like some old stone lying on the sand; he
looked as if he had become physically what was
always at the back of both of their minds—that
loneliness which was for both of them the truth
about things.

He was reading very quickly, as if he were
eager to get to the end. Indeed they were very
close to the Lighthouse now. There it loomed
up, stark and straight, glaring white and black,
and one could see the waves breaking in white
splinters like smashed glass upon the rocks. One
could see lines and creases in the rocks. One
could see the windows clearly; a dab of white on
one of them, and a little tuft of green on the rock.
A man had come out and looked at them through
a glass and gone in again. So it was like that,
James thought, the Lighthouse one had seen
across the bay all these years; it was a stark tower

3 "

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

on a bare rock. It satisfied, him. It confirmed
some obscure feeling of his about his own char-
actei. The old ladies, he thought, thinking of the
garden at home, went dragging their chairs about
on the lawn. Old Mrs. Beckwith, for example,
was always saying how nice it was and how sweet
it was and how they ought to be so proud and
they ought to be so happy, but as a matter of fact
James thought, looking at the Lighthouse stood
there on its rock, it’s like that. He looked at his
father reading fiercely with his legs curled tight.
They shared that knowledge. ** "VVe are driving
before a gale—we must sink,” he began saying to
himself, half aloud exactly as his father said it.

Nobody seemed to have spoken for an age.
Cam was tired of looking at the sea. Little bits
of black cork had floated past; the fish were dead
in the bottom of the boat. Still her father read,
^*ud James looked at him and she looked at him,
and they vowed that they would fight tyranny to
the death, and he went on reading quite un¬
conscious of what they thought. It was thus that
he escaped, she thought. Yes, with his great
forehead and his great nose, holding his little
mottled book firmly in front of him, he escaped.
You might try to lay hands on him, but then like
a bird, he spread his wings, he floated off to setde
out of your reach somewhere far away on some
312

the lighthouse

desolate stump. She gazed at the immense
expanse of the sea. The island had grown so
small that it scarcely looked like a leaf any longer
It looked like the top of a rock which some big
wave would cover. Yet in its frailty were all those
paths, those terraces, those bedrooms—all those
innumerable, things. But as, just before sleep,
things simplify themselves so that only one of all
the myriad details has power to assert itself, so,
she felt, looking drowsily at the island, all those
paths and terraces and bedrooms were fading
and disappearing, and nothing was left but 1
pale blue censer swinging rhythmically this way
and that, across her mind. It was a hanging
garden; it was a valley, full of birds, and flowers,
and antelopes. . . . She was falling asleep.

“ Come now,” said Mr. Ramsay, suddenly
shutting his book.

Come where? To what extraordinary adven¬
ture? She woke with a start. To land somewhere,
to climb somewhere? Where was he leading
them? For after his immense silence the words
startled them. But it was absurd. He was
hungry, he said. It was time for lunch. Besides,
look, he said. There’s the Lighthouse. “ We’re
almost there.”

“ He’s doing very well,” said Macalister,
praising James. “ He’s keeping her very steady.”

313

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

But his father never praised him, James
thought grimly.

Mr. Ramsay opened the parcel and shared out
the sandwiches among them. Now he was happy,
eating bread and cheese with these fishermen. He
would have liked to live in a cottage and lounge
about in the harbour spitting with the other old
men, James thought, watching him slice his cheese
into thin yellow sheets with his penknife.

This is right, this is it, Cam kept feeling, as
she peeled her hard-boiled egg. Now she felt as
she did in the study when the old men were
reading The Times. Now I can go on thinking
whatever I like, and I shan’t fall over a precipice
or be drowned, for there he is, keeping his eye on
me, she thought.

At the same time they were sailing so fast along
by the rocks that it was very exciting—it seemed
as if they were doing two things at once; they
were eating their lunch here in the sun and they
were also making for safety in a great storm
after a shipwreck. Would the water last?
Would the provisions last? she asked herself,
telling herself a story but knowing at the same
time what was the truth.

They would soon be out of it, Mr. Ramsay was
saying to old Macalister; but their children would
see some strange things. Macalister said he was
3H

THE LIGHTHOUSE

seventy-five last March; Mr. Ramsay was
seventy-one. Macalister said he had never seen a
doctor; he had never lost a tooth. And that’s the
way Fd like my children to live—Cam was sure
that her father was thinking that, for he stopped
her throwing a sandwich into the sea and told her,
as if he were thinking of the fishermen and how
they live, that if she did not want it she should
put it back in the parcel. She should not waste it.
He said it so wisely, as if he knew so well all the
things that happened in the world, that she put it
back at once, and then he gave her, from his own
parcel, a gingerbread nut, as if he were a great
Spanish gentleman, she thought, handing a flower
to a lady at a window (so courteous his manner
was). But he was shabby, and simple, eating
bread and cheese; and yet he was leading them
on a great expedition where, for all she knew,
they would be drowned.

44 That was where she sunk,” said Macalister’s
boy suddenly.

44 Three men were drowned where we are
now,” said the old man. He had seen them
clinging to the mast himself. And Mr. Ramsay
taking a look at the spot was about, James and
Cam were afraid, to burst out:

But I beneath a rougher sea,

and if he did, they could not bear it; they would

3 l S

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

shriek aloud; they could not endure another
explosion of the passion that boiled in him; but
to their surprise all he said was “ Ah ” as if he
thought to himself, But why make a fuss about
that? Naturally men are drowned in a storm, but
it is a perfectly straightforward affair, and the
depths of the sea (he sprinkled the crumbs from
his sandwich paper over them) are only water
after all. Then having lighted his pipe he took
out his watch. He looked at it attentively; he
made, perhaps, some mathematical calculation.
At last he said, triumphantly:

“ Well done! ” James had steered them like a
born sailor.

There! Cam thought, addressing herself
silently to James. You’ve got it at last. For she
knew that this was what James had been wanting,
and she knew that now he had got it he was so
pleased that he would not look at her or at his
father or at any one. There he sat with his hand
on the tiller sitting bolt upright, looking rather
sulky and frowning slightly. He was so pleased
that he was not going to let anybody take away a
grain of his pleasure. His father had praised
him. They must think that he was perfectly
indifferent. But you’ve got it now, Cam thought.

They had tacked, and they were sailing swiftly,
buoyantly on long rocking waves which handed
316

THE LIGHTHOUSE

them on from one to another with an extraordinary
lilt and exhilaration beside the reef. On the left a
row of rocks showed brown through the water
which thinned and became greener and on one, a
higher rock, a wave incessantly broke and spurted
a little column of drops which fell down in a
shower. One could hear the slap of the water and
the patter of falling drops and a kind of hushing
and hissing sound from the waves rolling and
gambolling and slapping the rocks as if they were
wild creatures who were perfectly free and tossed
and tumbled and sported like this for ever.

Now they could see two men on the Lighthouse,
watching them and making ready to meet them.

Mr. Ramsay buttoned his coat, and turned up
his trousers. He took the large, badly packed,
brown paper parcel which Nancy had got ready
and sat with it on his knee. Thus in complete
readiness to land he sat looking back at the island.
With his long-sighted eyes perhaps he could see
the dwindled leaf-like shape standing on end on a
plate of gold quite clearly. What could he see?
Cam wondered. It was all a blur to her. What
was he thinking now? she wondered. What was
it he sought, so fixedly, so intently, so silently?
They watched him, both of them, sitting bare¬
headed with his parcel on his knee staring and
staring at the frail blue shape which seemed like

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

the vapour of something that had burnt itself
away. What do you want? they both wanted to
ask. They both wanted to say, Ask us anything
and we will give it you. But he did not ask them
anything. He sat and looked at the island and he
might be thinking, We perished, each alone, or
he might be thinking, I have reached it. I have
found it, but he said nothing.

Then he put on his hat.

“Bring those parcels,” he said, nodding his
head at the things Nancy had done up for them
to take to the Lighthouse. “ The parcels for
the Lighthouse men,” he said. He rose and
stood in the bow of the boat, very straight
and tall, for all the world, James thought, as
if he were saying, “ There is no God,” and
Cam thought, as if he were leaping into space,
and they both rose to follow him as he sprang,

ightly like a young man, holding * his parcel,
on to the rock. r

“ He must have reached it,” said Lily Briscoe
aloud, feeling suddenly completely tired out. For
the Lighthouse had become almost invisible, had

me ted away into a blue haze, and the effort of
loofang « it and the effort Qf ^ of

THE LIGHTHOUSE

landing there, which both seemed to be one and
the same effort, had stretched her body and mind
to the utmost. Ah, but she was relieved. What¬
ever she had wanted to give him, when he left her
that morning, she had given him at last.

“ He has landed,” she said aloud. “ It is
finished.” Then, surging up, puffing slightly, old
Mr. Carmichael stood beside her, looking like an
old pagan God, shaggy, with weeds in his hair
and the trident (it was only a French novel) in his
hand. He stood by her on the edge of the lawn,
swaying a little in his bulk, and said, shading his
eyes with his hand: “They will have landed,”
and she felt that she had been right. They had
not needed to speak. They had been thinking
the same things and he had answered her without
her asking him anything. He stood there spread¬
ing his hands over all the weakness and suffering
of mankind; she thought he was surveying, toler¬
antly, compassionately, their final destiny. Now
he has crowned the occasion, she thought, when
his hand slowly fell, as if she had seen him let
fall from his great height a wreath of violets and
asphodels which, fluttering slowly, lay at length
upon the earth.

Quickly, as if she were recalled by something
over there, she turned to her canvas. There it was
—her picture. Yes, with all its green and blues,

3*9

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

its lines running up and across, its attempt at
something. It would be hung in the attics, she
thought; it would be destroyed. But what did '
that matter? she asked herself, taking up her
brush again. She looked at the steps; they were
empty; she looked at her canvas; it was blurred.
With a sudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for a
second, she drew a line there, in the centre. It
was done; it was finished. Yes, she thought,
laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have
had my vision. j

i

THE END

Wo5

Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. CLARK, Limited, Edmbnrr

1